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THE 



PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST, 



AND 



ACADEMICAL READER AND SPEAKER; 



DESIGNED FOR THE USE OF 



COLLEGES, ACADEMIES AND HIGH SCHOOLS, 

JOHN w^s: HOWS, 

1 , 

COMPILER OF "THE SHAKSPEARIAN READER," AND PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION IN 
COLUMBIA COLLEGE. 




The full expression of the mighty thought." 

Tupper. 



NEW YORK: 
GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY 

LONDON: PUTNAM'S AMERICAN AGENCY, 
1 849. 



^ 



^o\ 



*& 



Entered, according to Act of CoDgress, in the year 1849, by 

GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern 

District of New York. 



ED-WARD O. JENKINS, PRINTER AND STEBEOTTPEB, 

No. 114 Nassau Street, New-York. 



TO 

NATHANIEL F. MOORE, LL.D., 

THIS WORK 

3s Wtixtattl, 



A TRIBUTE 

OF 

SINCERE RESPECT 

AND 

ESTEEM. 



PREFACE. 



The very favorable reception my " Shakspeakian 
Reader" has met with from the press and the public, has 
induced me to meet another want in our stock of Educa- 
tional Literature, the deficiency of which has, I believe, 
been as generally experienced by teachers, as was the ne- 
cessity for a revised text of Shakspeare, for the use of 
schools. 

My chief design in this work is, to furnish a collection 
of examples for elocutionary practice, suited for advanced 
students, and adapted to the growing intelligence and im- 
proved taste of the age ; for the onward movement of the 
" March of Intellect" has reached the seclusion of the 
school-room and the retirement of the college, creating 
wants in the youthful mind which must be supplied. 

The greater proportion of the extracts in this compila- 
tion have never before been incorporated into any similar 
work; and there is scarcely an eminent name in modern 
literature that is not represented by some acknowledged 
"gem" of composition. Our standard authors have also 
been freely drawn upon ; and long- established favorite pie- 



xii PREFACE, 

ces have been retained ; for such have become stereotyped, 
as it were, in the affections of the young. 

Care has been taken to furnish striking illustrations of 
every variety of elocutionary expression. The examples 
intended for oratorical exercise, and poetical recitation, 
are unusually rich, new and varied ; and especial attention 
has been paid to selections exclusively adapted for reading 
lessons. 

I have taken infinite pains to make the whole of the 
selections conducive to the development of sound patriotism, 
and a healthy, manly tone of feeling and sentiment. I 
have likewise endeavored to furnish to the youthful student 
a species of intellectual vocabulary, for the suggestion of 
ideas on topics of leading and general interest. 

To a work so strictly practical in its design, it has been 
considered proper to append an equally practical system of 
elocution. For this purpose I have embodied, as clearly 
as it could be done in writing, the principles which govern 
my mode of elocutionary instruction. 

I have sought to divest this art of much of its artificial 
character, substituting a close analytical dissection of the 
sense and construction of language as the basis of the study, 
instead of adhering to arbitrary and mechanical rules, 
retaining only so many of the latter as are absolutely 
essential. 

By this process of instruction, the pupil is simply aided 
in following out the promptings of nature, by the exercise 
and consequent development of the perceptive faculties ; and 



PREFACE. xiii 

the vocal organs assume their due function, and acquire 
their full powers by constant practice, upon principles that 
are regulated by feeling, earnestness and thought. 

To those who may entertain doubts of the efficiency of 
this mode of elocutionary instruction, I can only reply by 
referring to the results of a course of fifteen years' exten- 
sive practice in this city, as proofs that this system has 
been tested by time, experience, the approbation of the 
intelligent, and the satisfactory fruits it has produced. 

J. W. S. H. 

New York, August 1, 1849. 



CONTENTS 



PART. FIRST. 

Page. 

Introduction. - - - - - - -23 

The True Basis of the Art. - - - - 23 

Analysis of Language. ... - . - 26 

Articulation. - - - - - - - 2*7 

Inflection. - - - - - - - -29 

Emphasis. - -.'-'- - - - - 31 

Modulation. -------- 33 

Gesture. -------- 35 

PART SECOND. 

EXAMPLES FOR A COURSE OF PRACTICE IN READING AND DECLAMATION. 

The Scholar's Mission. — Rev. George Putnam. - - 37 

The Value of Classical Studies. — Judge Story. 38 

Ancient and Modern Eloquence. — John Q. Adams. - - 40 

Poetry. — Channing. - - - - - - 41 

The Youthful Visionary.— Scott. - - - - - 43 

The Blind Preacher.— Wirt. - - - - - 44 

Immortality. — Dana. - - - - - - 46 

Influence of Great Actions. — Webster. - - . - - 47 

Public Virtue.— IT. Clay. - - - 49 

The Dying Alchymist.— N. P. Willis. 60 

New Netherlands and New York. — Bancroft. - - 62 



CONTENTS. 



American History. — Verplanck. - 
The American Forest Girl. — Hemans. - 

Liberty and Greatness. — Legare. - 

Character of Washington. — Fisher Ames. - 
Nature's Gentleman. — Eliza Cook. - - 

Discovery and Conquest of America. — James Montgomery. - 
Columbus at Barcelona, on his return from the Discovery of Amer- 
ica. — Washington Irving. - - - - 
The Voices of History. — R. Monckton- Milnes. 
The Present Age. — Channing. - - - -*'-*.■* 
Literature and Liberty. — Edward Everett. - 
Excelsior. — Longfellow. - - 
Discretionary Powers of Congress. — W. Pinkney. - 
The Prisoner of Chillon. — Byron. - - 
The Flying Head.— C. F. Hoffman. - 
Liberty and Prerogative. — Webster. - 
Antiquity of Freedom. — Bryant. 
Mariana. — Alfred Tennyson. - 
Importance of Preserving the Union. — Webster. 
Need of a National Literature. — Whipple. 
The Leper— AT". P. Willis. - 
The Cricket on the Hearth. — Dickens. - 
The Spirit of Poetry. — Longfellow. - 
The Murder.— J?. H. Dana. 
Niagara. — S. Margaret Fuller. 
Claims of Literature upon America. — A. H. Everett. 
Mazeppa. — Byron. - 
The Guardian Angel. — Lamartine. - 
Seventh Plague of Egypt. — Anonymous. 
The Minstrel Girl.— Whittier. - 
National Self-respect. — Beman. - 
The War of 1812.— John C. Calhoun. - 



Page. 
64 
56 
58 
60 
60 
61 



66 



70 

11 

72 

73 

75 

81 

82 

84 

86 

89 

92 

95 

99 

100 

103 

106 

108 

112 

113 

116 

116 

117 



CONTENTS. xvii 

Page. 

Death of Marmion.— £coft. - - - - - -119 

Queen Mab. — Shakspeare. - - - - - 121 

Character of Byron. — Macaulay. - - -- - - 122 

The Dying Gladiator. — Byron. - - - - 125 

Mont Blanc from the Col de Balme.— G. B. Cheever. - - 126 

The Hurricane.— Audubon. - - - - - 128 

Araby's Daughter. — Moore. - - - - - 131 

A Picture.— Shelley. - - - - - 132 

The Whip-poor-will.— G. P. Morris. - . - - - 133 

The Pilgrims. — Mrs. Sigourney. - - - - - 135 

The Settlement of Plymouth.— Webster. - - - - 136 

The Pilgrims of the Mayflower.— Edward Everett. - - 138 

Duties of American Citizens. — LeviVfoodbury. - - - 139 

The Dream of Eugene Aram. — T. Hood. ... 141 

Siege of Torquilstone. — Scott. - - - - 145 

The Arsenal. — Longfellow. - - - - - 151 

Compromise Bill of 1833.— H. Clay. - - - - 152 

Adams and Jefferson. — E. Everett. - 154 

Parties and Party Men. — William Gaston. - - - - 15*7 

The Prairie on Fire. — Cooper. - - - - 158 

Chamouny. — Coleridge. - - - - - - 163 

Genius "Waking. — Percival. - - - - 164 

Homes and Graves.— T % K. Hervey. - - - - 166 

The Boarding-House . — Dickens. - - - - 168 

The Lights and Shadows of Genius — Youth. — Original. - - 11 7 

« " " Manhood.— Original. - 179 

Public Faith the Basis of National Honor. — F. Ames. - - 181 

Human Progress. — Chapin. - - - - , -., 182 

Extension of the Republic— Edward Everett. - - - 184 

The Skylark. — James Hogg. - - - - - 186 

To an Egyptian Mummy. — Horace Smith. - - - 187 

Beauty. — Ralph W. Emerson. - - - - - 188 



XV111 



CONTENTS. 






Page. 

Science and Literature of America. — Judge Story. - - - 190 

Aristocracy. — 3frs. KirJcland. ----- 191 

Seven Ages of Man. — Shakspeare. ----- 194 

The Theatre.— Charming. - - - - - 195 

American Patriotism. — Webster. ---."" 196 

Trial of Warren Hastings. — Macaulay. - - - 19? 

God's First Temples.— Bryant. - - - - 200 

Vision of Belshazzar. — Byron. - - - - - 202 

The Student.— Elizabeth B. Barrett. ... - 203 

The Moral Dignity of Missionary Enterprise. — President Wayland. 205 

A Youthful Poet contemplating Nature. — Wordsworth. - - 207 

The Passions.— Coffin*. ------ 208 

Alaric the Visigoth. — Edward Everett. - 210 

National Compact. — Gouverneur Morris. - 212 

The Future Destiny of America — G. S. Hillard. - - - 213 

Lazy People. — Mrs. KirJcland. ----- 215 

Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius. — Shakspeare. - - - 216 

Damon and Pythias. — William Peter. - - - - 219 

Adventure.— Tupper. - - - - - - 222 

The Freedom of the Press. — Judge Story. ... 223 

Highland Snow-Storm. — Professor Wilson. - • - - 224 

The Influence of Woman in Free Governments. — Webster. - 232 

Our Government a System of Checks. — Gouverneur Morris. - 234 

The Shipwreck. — Byron. - - - - - 235 

Prometheus Bound. — uEsehylus. - - - - - 237 

Marco Bozzaris.— F. G. Hallech. - - - - 237 

Washington.— Eliza Cook. . - - - - - 239 

Primitive Habits of New Amsterdam. — W. Irving. - - 240 

The Patriot's Hope for Ireland. — Rev. Henry Giles. - - 242 

Glory. — President Wayland. ----- 244 

The Age of Revolutions. — Edward Everett. . - - - 246 

Belshazzar.— Croly. - - - - - - 247 



CONTENTS, 



xix 



The Men of Old.— H. Monckton Milnes. 

The Battle of Ivry. — Macaulay. - 

Robin Hood. — Scott. 

Oliver Twist. — Dickens. - 

American and European Interests.— Webster. 

Death of the Flowers. — Bryant. - - 

The Power of Legal Eloquence. — Original. 

A Tale of Terror. — Paul Louis Courier. 

The Chariot Eace. — Sophocles. 

The Convict Ship.— T. K. Hervey. 

Europe and America, — Webster. 

Brutus's Oration. — Shakspeare. - 

Mark Antony's Oration. — Shakspeare. 

The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth. — Hazlitt. 

A Romance about Milton. — Sir William Jones. 

Thanatopsis. — Bryant. - - 

The Tragedy of the Pyrenees. — R. Monckton Milnes. 

The Murder and the Murderer's Doom. — Webster. 

Avalanches of the Jungfrau. — Gf. B. Cheever. 

Nature's Nobleman. — Tapper. - 

Abou Ben Adhem. — Leigh Hunt. 

The Universal Hymn of Nature. — Thomson. 

Excellence the Reward of Labor. — Wirt. 

Christianity the True Source of Reform. — Chapin. 

The Destruction of the Philistines. — Milton. 

The Day of Judgment. — Jeremy Taylor. 

Bernardo Del Carpio. — Hemans. 

Story of Le Fevre. — Sterne. - - - 

Our Treatment of the Indians. — H. Clay. - 

Napoleon Bonaparte. — Phillips. 

What is Glory ? "What is Fame ? — Motherwell. 

The Miserere at Rome.—/ T. Headley. 



Page. 
248 
249 
252 
251 
264 
265 
265 
267 
269 
210 
271 
213 
213 
275 
278 
280 
282 
284 
286 
288 
289 
289 
291 
292 
293 
295 
291 
298 
304 
306 
308 
309 



XX 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

A Fragment. — Frances Kemble Butler. • - - - 310 

Acts of the American Revolution. — Jared Sparks. - - 311 

March of Bernardo Del Carpio.— Spanish Ballads. - - 313 

The Progress of Scientific Art. — Webster. - - - 314 

Extract from Faustus. — Goethe. - - - - - 3J5 

Where should the Scholar live ? — Longfellow. - 317 

A Legend of the Rhine. — Victor Hugo. .... 318 

The Last Evening before Eternity. — Hillhouse. - ... 325 

Unwritten Music— N. P. Willis. ----- 326 

The Brothers Cheery ble. — Dickens. - - - - . 329 

On the Necessity of Union in the Republic. — H. Clay. - - 340 

Picture of an Irish Village and School-house.— William Carleton. 341 

Accomplishments of Hudibras. — Butler. - - - - 345 

Tribute to the Universal Genius of Shakspeare. — Francis Jeffrey. 847 
The Pioneer. — Brainard. - --- - - -349 

Character of Franklin. — Bancroft. - 350 

Song of the Bell— Schiller. - - - - - - 351 

Our Domestic Resources. — H. Clay. - 360 

The Fallen Leaves.— Mrs. Norton. - - - - - 361 

Fancy.— Keats. ------- 362 

A Rill from the Town Pump. — Hawthorne, - - - - 364 

Rienzi's Address to the Romans. — Miss Mitford. . . 369 

Address to Poets.— Keble. - - - - - 370 

The Last Man.— Campbell. - - - - - 371 

The Protective Policy.— H. Clay. - - - - - 378 

Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma. — Dickens. - - - - 375 

DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. 

Brutus and Cassius, on the Conspiracy against Csesar. — Shakspeare. 379 

The Death of Ion.— Talfourd. 383 

Scene from the Honey-Moon. — Tobin. - 387 

Hotspur and Glendower.— Shakspeare. - 392 



CONTENTS. xxi 

Page 

Scene from the Iron Chest. — Colman. .... 393 

Scene from Old Heads and Young Hearts.— Borcicault. - 398 

Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice. — ShaJcspeare. - - 402 

Scene from the Elder Brother. — Beaumont and Fletcher. - 412 

Scene from "Werner. — Byron. - - - . - - 414 

Scene from the Poor Gentleman. — Colman. - - - 41*7 

Scene from Douglass. — Home. . - - - - - 422 

Scene from Money. — Bulwer. - - - - - 425 



THE 



PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



INTRODUCTION. 

THE TRUE BASIS OF THE ART. 

There is a Philosophy in Elocution, which if it were 
thoroughly understood and carried out by instructors and 
students, would divest the art of most of the superfluous 
Mechanical Rules, now considered by many as imperative 
adjuncts in their systems of Elocutionary Instruction ; and 
although I readily yield my tribute of respect to the learn- 
ing and talent these originators and compilers of elaborated 
systems of Elocution have exhibited, as the fruits of their 
labors, yet a long course of practical experience has con- 
vinced me, that we have arrived at a period when mere 
artificial and complicated systems of Elocution do not meet 
the wants of our age. 

To England and America, more particularly, will this 
observation apply. There is a matter-of-fact practical 
intelligence abroad in these countries, which discards all 






xxir - INTRODUCTION". 

appearance of " artificial and studied graces " in oratory. 
Men are now dealing with realities, and the public speaker 
who exhibits the palpable artificial training of systems, in- 
stead of the earnestness, the intensity, and the natural 
impulses of the heart, will assuredly fail in his efforts, 
however graceful and finished may be his delivery. 

A strictly practical system of Elocution is required for 
the student of the present day ; one that shall be direct in 
its application and easy of attainment ; or rather the pupil 
should be directed to the true principles which alone govern 
the art, rather than to any arbitrary system which elevates 
mechanical rules above the promptings of nature, and the 
operations of the mind. The strictly essential rules are so 
few, and so easy to be acquired, under proper instructors, 
that Elocution should be viewed as an ^Esthetic, rather 
than a Mechanic art. It is upon this all-important dis- 
tinction that the basis of the art is founded. 

Let the attention of the pupil be first directed to a care- 
ful analytical dissection of the construction and meaning of 
language, even to the minutest varieties of thought and 
expression of which words are the conveyancers ; and then 
let the mind be impressed with the important truth that in 
oral communication, either in reading or speaking, there 
must be an embodying for m, or representative power used, 
called " Elocutionary expression," by which every shade 
of thought and feeling is expressed by a natural and appro- 
priate shade of sound, giving to language a species of 
vitality by which words become literally the exponents of 



INTRODUCTION. xxv 

thought, and the whole secret of elocutionary art is com- 
prehended at a glance. 

Now this very palpable, practical and easy method, for 
acquiring an accomplished and expressive mode of de- 
livery, seems not to require the aid of rules or instructors 
to effect, and yet our every- day experience teaches us 
that many educated and intelligent persons fail in giving 
proper expression to language, when called upon to read or 
speak. 

A long course of professional practice enables me, I think 
satisfactorily, to solve this apparent anomaly. The analy- 
sis of language, with especial reference to its elocutionary 
expression, is seldom thought of. Hence the faulty elocu- 
tion we so frequently witness, where we might reasonably 
look for earnest and impressive delivery ; add to this the 
defects and mannerisms, natural and acquired, and we 
have the key to most of the causes which operate in pro- 
ducing the imperfect and false styles of elocution much 
in vogue among us. 

We require to be brought back to the great teacher, 
Nature ; and we stand in need of capable instructors to 
aid us in correcting our defects. There are also certain 
essential rules of the art necessary to be known, and there 
is labor and practice to be undergone, before we can arrive 
at any perfection in the art. It is impossible, in any writ- 
ten system of elocutionary instruction, to convey fully to the 
mind of the pupil all the points necessary for his attention. 
Even the most elaborate systems of instruction in this art 
2 



INTRODUCTION. 

fail to meet all the exigencies that occur in a course of 
elocutionary practice ; yet most of the essential rules may 
be condensed into a brief practical form, capable of afford- 
ing important aids to any intelligent student. These I have 
endeavored to collect into a narrow compass, digested in a 
natural order, and trust that they will prove valuable hints 
for the direction of the inexperienced and unpractised 
student, 



ANALYSIS OF LANGUAGE, 

WITH REFERENCE TO ELOCUTIONARY EXPRESSION. 

Passing over the grammatical construction of language^ 
which is more immediately the province of Rhetoric, I 
would direct the attention of the pupil to the consideration 
that there is u a language of emotions and passions, as 
well as a language of ideas/' and that this language is 
uniformly taught by Nature. It is the essential part of 
Elocution to imitate this language of nature, in our de- 
livery. Words and sentences must be analyzed in our 
practice, with direct reference to this expression ; tones, 
looks and gestures must be used in accordance with the 
emotions, passions and sentiments we are called upon to 
convey. A daily practice of varied selections from stand- 
ard authors, upon these principles, would alone make a 
respectable speaker, for the perceptive faculties would 
gradually become quickened, the taste would impercepti- 






INTRODUCTION. xxv ii 

bly be cultivated, the vocal organs would assume a capable 
and efficient power of modulation and expression, and all 
this would be achieved without the aid of elaborated arti- 
ficial rules, which too frequently level down the minds of 
pupils to one Procrustean bed, irrespective of difference of 
temperament, habits, or feeling. 

I am speaking of the effects this practice may produce 
on matured and educated persons ; with the young a more 
systematic course of instruction must of course be adopted. 

In this analytical process the intellectual faculties of the 
pupil must never lie dormant. The meaning and ex- 
pression of language must be grappled with hooks of steel, 
and every aid that education can afford must be brought to 
bear on our labors ; we must understand to feel, and ex- 
pression will surely follow ; and then to acquire a finish 
and perfectness of delivery, long, continuous and laborious 
practice will be necessary. 



The following auxiliary, but subordinate Rules, should 
be committed to memory, to assist the pupil in the mere 
artistical departments of the study. 

ARTICULATION. 

Articulation now forms a very prominent branch of ele- 
mentary study in every respectable school 5 I need not, 



xxviii INTRODUCTION. 

therefore, occupy much space in this work to the illustra- 
tion of its principles, farther than to show their practical 
application in the acquirement of elocutionary expression. 

Articulation is justly considered one of the most indis- 
pensable requisites in delivery. A public speaker pos- 
sessed of only a moderate voice, will not fail to impress an 
audience, if he has acquired a correct and distinct articula- 
tion. 

The chief points to be attended to in the study of this 
branch of elocution, are the giving to every letter its due 
proportion of sound, and to render a distinct syllabication 
of words. 

Practice on the prolonged sounds of vowels, vocal con- 
sonants and liquids, will be found extremely beneficial to 
the elocutionary student. He will acquire ease, force and 
precision, and the organs of the voice will also be devel- 
oped in the course of practice, taking especial care to use 
an energetic expulsion of the breath directly from the 
chest.* 

Pronunciation belongs to this department of Elocution. 
Standard authorities must be taken as the recognized guides 
in this branch of the art. Where a choice is left to the 
student, I conceive that the public speaker should always 
adopt that pronunciation which sounds the most euphonious 
on the ear. 

* On the management of the voice, Dr. Rush, " On the Philosophy of 
the Vocal Organs," and Mr. Murdock's " Orthophony ; or Vocal Culture 
in Elocution," may be consulted as standard authorities. 



INTRODUCTION. xxix 

INFLECTION. 

" Inflection is simply a bending or sliding of the voice 
upwards or downwards. There are two inflections ; the 
one called the Upward, or Rising Inflection ; the other, the 
Downward, or Falling Inflection." 

Unimportant as this branch of the art may at first appear, 
it is nevertheless essentially necessary to be thoroughly un- 
derstood, connected as it is with the use of pauses, and 
being also one of the means whereby we convey to the 
hearer a distinct perception of the construction and mean- 
ing of language. 

Inflection, in its positive sense, shows by the rising in- 
flection, that the sense or meaning of the sentence is sus- 
pended ; and by the falling inflection, that the sense is 
completed, as 

Age,' that lessens the enjoyment of life/ increases our desire 
of living.' 

In a series of particulars, the rising inflection is used 
until the final clause of the series — when the falling indi- 
cates the close. 

When a series begins a sentence, but does not end it, 
this rule is broken ; the last clause of the series then takes 
the suspending pause, with a greater degree of inflection, 
as for example : 

Finally,' brethren,' whatsoever things are true/ whatsoever 



xxx INTRODUCTION. 

things are honest/ whatsoever things are just/ whatsoever 
things are pure/ whatsoever things are of good report ;" if 
there be any virtue/ and if there be any praise/' think of these 
things/ 

In a concluding series, the one preceding the last par- 
ticular requires a greater degree of the rising inflection, to 
designate that the next particular will finish the series. 

Note. — All series should be read with an increased expres- 
sion of the voice, and a more prominent inflection on every par- 
ticular. 

Clauses of sentences which form complete sense, should 
end with a moderated falling inflection. 

Negative sentences, and negative members of sentences, 
take the rising inflection. When a series of negative sen- 
tences concludes a paragraph, the last member of the series 
takes the falling inflection. 

A concession, or admission, takes the rising inflection. 

Note. — The use of the rising inflection, in negative sentences, 
is of great importance. 

Negative sentiment falls comparatively powerless on the 
hearer, unless given with a strong rising inflection. 

When the negative is opposed to the affirmative, the 
former takes the rising, the latter the falling. Unequal 
antitheses, or contrasts, are governed by the same principle. 
In the latter the less important member takes the rising, 
and the preponderating one the falling inflection. 



INTRODUCTION. XXXi 

Emphatic negation takes the falling inflection. 

Questions which can be answered by Yes, or No, or 
commencing with a verb, terminate with the rising inflec- 
tion. 

Emphasis breaks through this rule. 

When a question commences with an interrogative ad- 
verb or pronoun, it ends with the falling inflection. 

In a long series of questions, terminating a paragraph, 
the last member may take the falling inflection. 

Exclamations of joy and surprise take the rising ; fear, 
anger, scorn, grief, and awe, the falling inflection. 

Note. — It will be necessary for the pupil to practise on the 
slides from the rising to the falling inflection, so as to be able 
to inflect with ease, and in a full sonorous voice, divested of all 
angularity or abruptness. 



EMPHASIS. 

By emphasis is meant that stronger, fuller sound of the 
voice, by which in reading, or speaking, we distinguish the 
accented syllable of words on which we design to throw 
particular stress, in order to show how they affect the rest 
of the sentence. 

It is obvious that on the right management of Emphasis 
depends the whole life and spirit of delivery : for false 
emphasis perverts and confounds the meaning of language ; 
feeble and unimpressive emphasis is ineffective, and em- 



xxxii INTRODUCTION. 

phasis overdone and overcharged is repulsive to good taste 
and sound judgment. 

Elocutionists have described emphasis as being either 
" absolute " or " relative," the first confined to the utter- 
ance of a single thought or feeling of decided expression ; 
the latter in connection, or opposition of two or more 
ideas. 

Exclamations and interjections usually require impas- 
sioned or absolute emphasis. " Every new incident in 
narration," each particular object in description, and each 
new subject in didactic passages, require to be marked with 
distinctive emphatic stress sufficient to render them striking 
or prominent. 

Corresponding and antithetical words should be emphat- 
ically marked in the delivery : when contrasted or compared, 
the objects of greater importance should be given with a 
stronger emphatic expression. 

When great force is desired in the delivery of a particu- 
lar phrase, every word, and even the parts of compound 
words, are given with emphatic expression. 

A climax should be rendered, with the voice gradually 
ascending in expression until the close. 

An anti-climax decreases in energy as it proceeds, the 
last member taking the falling inflection. 

Repetition requires high rising inflection, acquiring fresh 
intensity from the iteration. 

Circumflex, or Wave, is a species of emphasis which 
combines the rising and falling inflection on the same word. 



INTRODUCTION. xxxiii 

It is used in the tones of mockery, sarcasm and irony, and 
to mark a peculiar or a double meaning. 

Monotone, is the continuous flow of sound, unvaried by 
inflection. Sublimity, awe, reverence, amazement and 
horror, are governed by the monotone. 

Note. — The above rules may assist the speaker or reader in 
the management of emphasis, but the chief rule is the process 
of intellectual analysis, by which we are enabled thoroughly to 
understand, discriminate and to feel, the delicacies and the 
spirit of language. 

We then distinguish the relative bearing of words to each 
other, and mark their direct connection or opposition. 



MODULATION. 

Modulation is the giving to each tone of the voice its 
appropriate character and expression. 

This all-important branch of elocution cannot be taught 
by arbitrary rules, 

The modulation of the voice in the expression of emotion 
or passion, must be prompted by nature, to. become intel- 
ligible and effective in the delivery. Anger, fear, joy, 
grief, love, or any other passion, naturally suggest appro- 
priate tones, and the necessary varied modulation of the 
voice will follow when we feel these passions or emotions. 
The use of modulation is not confined to the more vehement 
passions ; some kind of feeling or expression accompanies all 
language, and this feeling has its proper expression. 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 

The mind must be disciplined to a keen perception of the 
sense, the force and the beauty of language, and the whole 
soul must be attuned, as it were, to the embodiment of every 
shade that occurs in the delineation of passion or emotion. 

The speaker or reader who does not acquire this varied 
and expressive modulation of the voice, will fail to produce 
due impression upon his auditors, however correct may be 
his articulation, inflection and emphatic stresses. 

Monotony is a fault always held unpardonable in a 
speaker, for it invariably excites impatience and disgust. 

Practice on examples embracing varieties of expression, 
will enable the speaker to attain correct modulation, and if 
this exercise is conducted under the supervision and in- 
struction of an able teacher, the attainment of the qualifi- 
cation becomes more rapid and satisfactory. A good model 
in this branch of elocutionary study seems almost indis- 
pensable. 

With modulation, changes of tone and changes in de- 
livery are connected. In the commencement of a new 
sentence generally, and frequently in the same sentence, 
a marked variety of tone is essential. " Opposition, 
variety, modification of the sense, interruption of the 
thought, whether in one sentence or in separate sen- 
tences, produce a change of key." 

Passionate composition requires more frequent changes 
of the key, than argument. 

The great fundamental rule for all modulation, is to 
throw ourselves with perfect sincerity into the character of 



INTRODUCTION. xxxv 

the language ; be earnest, forcible and expressive, and we 
shall persuade or convince at will. Imitative modulation 
is a great power in the hands of a skillful speaker or reader. 
Not only may we convey to our hearers, in reading espe- 
cially, our own feelings of the beauty and force of language, 
by a corresponding* tone and modulation, but even particu- 
lar words acquire a double force of expression by the' use of 
imitative modulation, presenting to the mind of the hearer 
a succession of pictures descriptive of the sense, simply by 
tones. In poetical reading and recitation, the use of imita- 
tive modulation is peculiarly striking. We embody, as it 
were, the descriptions created by the author, vividly and 
palpably to the hearer. 



GESTURE. 

Gesticulation should not be left only to the impulse of 
the speaker, at the moment of delivery. Feeling will 
doubtless suggest appropriate action, when that feeling is 
regulated by a cultivated and refined taste. Yet good 
models may be consulted with advantage, and a few gene- 
ral principles may be applied, for the acquirement of easy 
and graceful action. 

Theatrical and overstrained action should be avoided. 

Allow the limbs to fall gracefully, and without strain, 
into easy attitudes, taking care that all the motions of the 
arms proceed directly from the shoulders — not curved from 



INTRODUCTION. 



the hips. Avoid all angularity of action. Stand firm, 
with the chest expanded and the head erect, and even in 
the strongest efforts of passionate declamation you will 
avoid ungraceful and overstrained action. 



The foregoing compilation of general rules may serve to 
aid the intelligent student in acquiring a natural style of 
Elocution. They are, however, but aids, or auxiliaries. 
No written rules can make an accomplished orator or 
reader. By observing the manner in which the several 
passions and feelings are expressed in real life, by acquir- 
ing the faculty of imitating these expressions in the delivery 
of selected passages, and above all by the cultivation of our 
perceptive faculties, with direct reference to elocutionary 
expression — these are the certain methods by which a 
natural, graceful and impressive mode of delivery is to be 
acquired. 



THE 



PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



PART SECOND 



EXAMPLES FOR A COURSE OF PRACTICE IN 
READING AND DECLAMATION. 



The Scholars Mission.— Hey. George PutiNAM. 

The wants of our time and country, the constitution of our 
modern society, our whole position— personal and relative — 
forbid a life of mere scholarship or literary pursuits, to the 
great majority of those who go out from our colleges. How- 
ever it may have been in other times, and other lands, here and 
now, but few of our educated men are privileged 

" From the loopholes of retreat 
To look upon the world, to hear the sound 
Of the great Babel, and not feel its stir." 

Society has work for us, and we must forth to do it. Full 
early and hastily we must gird on the manly gown, gather up 
the loose leaves and scanty fragments of our youthful lore, and 
go out among men, to act with them and for them. It is a 
practical age ; and our Wisdom, such as it is, "must strive and 
cry, and utter her voice in the streets, standing in the places of 
the paths, crying in the chief place of concourse, at the entry 
of the city, and the coming in at the doors." 

This state of things, though not suited to the tastes and 
qualities of all, is not, on the whole, to be regretted by educat- 



88 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

ed men as such. It is not in literary production only, or 
chiefly, that educated mind finds fit expression, and fulfils its 
mission in honor and beneficence. In the great theatre of the 
world's affairs, there is a worthy and a sufficient sphere. Society 
needs the well-trained, enlarged and cultivated intellect of the 
scholar, in its midst; needs it, and welcomes it, and gives it a 
place, or, by its own capacity, it will take a place of honor, 
influence, and power. The youthful scholar has no occasion to 
deplore the fate that is soon to tear him from his studies, and 
cast him into the swelling tide of life and action. None of his 
disciplinary and enriching culture will be lost, or useless, even 
there. Every hour of study, every truth he has reached, 
and the toilsome process by which he reached it ; the height- 
ened grace or vigor of thought or speech he has acquired — all 
shall tell fully, nobly, if he will give heed to the conditions. 
And one condition, the prime one, is, that he be a true man, 
and recognize the obligation of a man, and go forth with 
heart, and will, and every gift and acquirement dedicated, lov- 
ingly and resolutely, to the true and the right. These are the 
terms; and apart from these there is no success, no influence to 
be had, which an ingenuous mind can desire, or which a sound 
and far-seeing mind would dare to seek. 

Indeed, it is not an easy thing, nay, it is not a possible thing, 
to obtain a substantial success, and an abiding influence, except 
on these terms. A factitious popularity, a transient notoriety, 
or, in the case of shining' talents, the doom of a damning fame, 
may fall to bad men. But an honored name, enduring influ- 
ence, a sun brightening on through its circuit, more and more, 
even to its serene setting — this boon of a true success goes 
never to intellectual qualities alone. It gravitates slowly but 
surely to weight of character, to intellectual ability rooted in 
principle. 



The Value of Classical Studies.— Judge Story. 

I pass over all consideration of the written treasures of an- 
tiquity, which have survived the wreck of empires and dynasties, 
of monumental trophies and triumphal arches, of palaces of 
princes and temples of the gods. I pass over all consideration 
of those admired compositions, in which wisdom speaks, as with 



THE VALUE OF CLASSICAL STUDIES. 39 

a voice from heaven ; of those sublime efforts of poetical genius 
which still freshen, as they pass from age to age, in undying 
vigor ; of those finished histories which still enlighten and in- 
struct governments in their duty and their destiny ; of those 
matchless orations which roused nations to arms, and chained 
senates to the chariot- wheels of all- conquering eloquence. These 
all may now be read in our vernacular tongue. Ay, as one re- 
members the face of a dead friend by gathering up the broken 
fragments of his image — as one listens to the tale of a dream 
twice told — as one catches the roar of the ocean in the ripple of a 
rivulet — as one sees the blaze of noon in the first glimmer of 

twilight 

There is not a single nation from the North to the South of 
Europe, from the bleak shores of the Baltic to the bright plains 
of immortal Italy, whose literature is not embedded in the very 
elements of classical learning. The literature of England is, in 
an emphatic sense, the production of her scholars ; of men who 
have cultivated letters in her universities, and colleges, and 
grammar-schools ; of men who thought any life too short, chiefly 
because it left some relic of antiquity unmastered, and any other 
fame humble, because it faded in the presence of Roman and 
Grecian genius. He who studies English literature without the 
lights of classical learning loses half the charms of its sentiments 
and style, of its force and feelings, of its delicate touches, of its 
delightful allusions, of its illustrative associations. Who, that 
reads the poetry of Gray, does not feel that it is the refinement 
of classical taste which gives such inexpressible vividness and 
transparency to his diction ? Who, that reads the concentrated 
sense and melodious versification of Dryden and Pope, does not 
perceive in them the disciples of the old school, whose genius 
was inflamed by the heroic verse, the terse satire, and the play- 
ful wit of antiquity ? Who, that meditates over the strains of 
Milton, does not feel that he drank deep at 

" Siloa's brook, that flow'd 
Fast by the oracle of God"— 

that the fires of his magnificent mind were lighted by coals from 
ancient altars ? 

It is no exaggeration to declare that he who proposes to 
abolish classical studies proposes to render, in a great measure, 
inert and unedifying the mass of English literature for three cen- 
turies ; to rob us of the glory of the past, and much of the 
instruction of future ages ; to blind us to excellencies which few 
may hope to equal and none to surpass ; to annihilate associa- 



40 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

tions which are interwoven with our best sentiments, and give 
to distant times and countries a presence and reality as if they 
were in fact his own. 



Ancient and Modern Eloquence,— Sow Q. Adams. 

With the dissolution of Roman liberty, and the decline of 
Roman taste, the reputation and the excellency of the oratorical 
art fell alike into decay. Under the -despotism of the Ca3sars, 
the end of eloquence was perverted from persuasion to pane- 
gyric, and all her faculties were soon palsied by the touch of 
corruption, or enervated by the impotence of servitude. Then 
succeeded the midnight of the monkish ages, when with the 
other liberal arts she slumbered in the profound darkness of the 
cloister. 

At the revival of letters in modern Europe, eloquence, to- 
gether with her sister muses, awoke, and shook the poppies 
from her brow. But their torpors still tingled in her veins. 
In the interval her voice was gone ; her favorite languages were 
extinct ; her organs were no longer attuned to harmony, and her 
hearers could no longer understand her speech. The discord- 
ant jargon of feudal anarchy had banished the musical dialects, 
in which she had always delighted. The theatres of her former 
triumphs were either deserted, or they were filled with the bab- 
blers of sophistry and chicane. She shrunk intuitively from the 
forum, for the last object she remembered to have seen there 
was the head of her darling Cicero, planted upon the rostrum. 
She ascended the tribunals of justice ; there she found her child, 
Persuasion, manacled and pinioned by the letter of the law ; 
there she beheld an image of herself, stammering in barbarous 
Latin, and staggering under the lumber of a thousand volumes. 
Her heart fainted within her. She lost all confidence in her- 
self. Together with her irresistible powers, she lost propor- 
tionably the consideration of the world, until, instead of com- 
prising the whole system of public education, she found herself 
excluded from the circle of science, and declared an outlaw 
from the realms of learning. She was not however doomed 
to eternal silence. With the progress of freedom and of libe- 
ral science, in various parts of modern Europe, she obtained 
access to mingle in the deliberations of their parliaments. 



POETRY. 41 

With labor and difficulty she learned their languages, and lent 
her aid in giving them form and polish. But she has never 
recovered the graces of her former beauty, nor the energies of 
her ancient vigor. 



Poetry, — Channtng. 

We believe that poetry, far from injuring society, is one of 
the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts 
the mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing 
cares, and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what 
is pure and noble. In its legitimate and highest efforts, it has 
the same tendency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spirit- 
ualize our nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument 
of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but when genius thus 
stoops, it dims its fires and parts with much of its power ; and. 
even when poetry is enslaved to licentiousness or misanthropy, 
she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure 
feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, 
sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation 
at the hollowness of the world, passages true to our moral na- 
ture, often escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard 
it is for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is 
good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. 
It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation 
and of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible energy, the 
excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which show a 
mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, 
and excite a deep, though shuddering sympathy. Its great 
tendency and purpose is to carry the mind beyond and above 
the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lift it into a 
purer element ; and to breathe into it more profound and gen- 
erous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings 
back the freshness of early feeling, revives the relish of simple 
pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the 
spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our 
interest in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderest 
and loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies over all classes of 
society, knits ug by new ties with universal being, and, through 
the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on 
the future life. 



42 . THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

We are aware that it is objected to poetry, that it gives wrong 
views and excites false expectations of life, peoples the mind 
with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagination on the 
ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom against which poetry 
wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes physical comfort 
and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the chief inter- 
est of life, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the least ser- 
vice which poetry renders to mankind, that it redeems them 
from the thraldom of this earthborn prudence. But, passing 
over this topic, we would observe, that the complaint against 
poetry, as abounding in illusion and deception, is, in the main, 
groundless. In many poems there is more of truth than in 
many histories and philosophic theories. The fictions of genius 
are often the vehicles of the sublimest verities, and its flashes 
often open new regions of thought, and throw new light on the 
mysteries of our being. In poetry, when the letter is false- 
hood, the spirit is often profoundest wisdom. And, if truth 
thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may 
it be expected in his delineations of life; for the present life, 
which is the first stage of the immortal mind, abounds in the 
materials of poetry, and it is the high office of the bard to de- 
tect this divine element among the grosser labors and pleasures 
of our earthly being. The present life is not wholly prosaic, 
precise, tame, and finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the 
poetic. The affections which spread beyond ourselves and 
stretch far into futurity ; the workings of mighty passions, 
which seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; 
the innocent and irrepressible joy of infancy ; the bloom, and 
buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth ; the throbbings of the 
heart, when it first wakes to love and dreams of a happiness 
too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and 
gentleness, and fullness of feeling, and depth of affection, and 
blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a moth- 
er's heart can inspire ; these are all poetical. It is not true that 
the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts 
and concentrates, as it w T ere, life's ethereal essence, arrests and 
condenses its volatile fragrance, brings together its scattered 
beauties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys. 
And in this he does well ; for it is good to feel that life is not 
wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and physical gratifica- 
tions, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely en- 
larged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. 
This power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness, 
is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed to 






THE YOUTHFUL VISIONARY. 43 

withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial man- 
ners, which make civilization so tame and uninteresting. It is 
needed to counteract the tendency of physical science, which, 
being now sought, not as formerly, for intellectual gratification, 
but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new develop- 
ment of imagination, taste, and poetry, to preserve men from 
sinking into an earthly, material, Epicurean life. 



The Youthful Visionary.— Scott. 

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, 
Winning from Reason's hand the reins, 
Pity and woe ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind; 
And woe to those who train such youth, 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal, 
While on the stithy glows the steel ! 
O teach him, while your lessons last, 
To judge the present by the past ; 
Remind him of each wish pursued, 
How rich it glowed with promised good ; 
Remind him of each wish enjoyed, 
How soon his hopes possession cloyed ! 
Tell him, we play unequal game, 
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ; 
And ere he strip him for her race, 
Show the conditions of the chace. 
Two Sisters by the goal are set, 
Cold Disappointment and Regret ; 
One disenchants the winner's eyes. 
And strips of all its worth the prize, 
While one augments its gaudy show, 
More to enhance the loser's woe. 
The victor sees his fairy gold 
Transformed, when won, to drossy mold, 
But still the vanquished mourns his loss, 
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. 

More wouldst thou know — yon tower survey, 
Yon couch unpressed since parting day, 
Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam 
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 
And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 
On his pale cheek unequal spread ; 
The head reclined, the loosened hair, 
The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. 



44 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

See, he looks up ; — a woeful smile 
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while — 
'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought, 
To gild the ruin she has wrought ; 
For, like the bat of Indian brakes, 
Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 
And, soothing thus the dreamer's pain, 
She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 



The Blind Preacher.— Wirt. 

It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of 
Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of .horses tied 
near a ruinous old, wooden house in the forest, not far from 
the roadside. Having frequently seen such objects before, in 
travelling through these States, I had no difficulty in under- 
standing that this was a place of- religious worship. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties 
of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curiosity to hear 
the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least of my mo- 
tives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appear- 
ance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which 
was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and 
his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and 
a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. 

The first emotions that touched my breast were those of 
mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feel- 
ings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a 
prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man ! 
It was a day of the administration of the sacrament ; and his 
subject was, of course, the passion of our Saviour. I had heard 
the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it ex- 
hausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods 
of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would 
give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had 
ever before witnessed. 

As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic 
symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in 
his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my 
whole frame shiver. 

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his 



THE BLIND PREACHER. 



45 



■trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his crucifixion ; and 
his death. I knew the whole history; but never until then had 
I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored ! 



It was all new ; and I seemed to have heard it for the first 
time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate that his 
voice trembled on every syllable ; and every heart in the as- 
sembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force 
of description, that the original scene appeared to be at that 
moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the 
Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We 
saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of indignation; 
and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. 

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving 
meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew, to the life, his blessed 
eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God 
a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, " Father, 
forgive them, for they know not what they do" — the voice of 
the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and 
fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the 
force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and 
burst into aloud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect is 
inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled 
groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to 
permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fal- 
lacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very un- 
easy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not con- 
ceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the 
height to which he had wound them, without impairing the so- 
lemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them 
by the abruptness of the fall. But — no ; the descent was as 
beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and en- 
thusiastic. 

The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence, was 
a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died like a philosopher, 
but Jesus Christ like a God !" 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by 
this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the 
whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the 
discourse. Never before did I completely understand what 
Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You 
are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher ; 
his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Ho- 
mer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance 



46 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses ; you are to imagine 
that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and 
his voice of affecting, trembling melody ; you are to remember 
the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation 
were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, death- 
like silence which reigned throughout the house ; the preacher 
removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet 
wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching 
forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, 
"Socrates died like a philosopher" — then, pausing, raising his 
other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth 
and energy, to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to heaven, 
and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but 
Jesus Christ — like a God !" If he had been indeed and in truth 
an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more di- 
vine. Whatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity 
of Massillon, or the force of Bourdaloue, had fallen short of 
the power which I felt from the delivery of this simple sen- 
tence. 



Immortality.— Daxa. 

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, 
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The Eternal Mind— the Father of all thought- 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — 
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? — 
Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, 
Which One, with gentle hand the vail of flesh 
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
In glory? — throne, before which, even now, 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, 
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? — 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense. 
Thou awful, unseen Presence — are they quenched, 
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? 

And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
Do those that took their root and put, forth buds, 



INFLUENCE OF GREAT ACTIONS. 47 

And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 

Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 

Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? 

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, 

And make it send forth winning harmonies — 

That to the cheek do give its living glow, 

And vision in the eye the soul intense 

With that for which there is no utterance — 

Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? — 

To live in it, and when that dies, go out 

Like the burnt taper's flame ? 

0, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
'" Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas. 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
0, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 
'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
"Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 



Influence of Great Actions.—WimaTEa. 

Great actions and striking occurrences, having excited a tem- 
porary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because 
they leave no lasting results, affecting the prosperity of communi- 
ties. Such is frequently the fortune of the most brilliant mili- 
tary achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have 
been fought; of all the fields fertilized with carnage; of the 
banners which have been bathed in blood ; of tfe> warriors who 
have hoped that they had risen from the field o. *vaest to a 



48 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

glory as bright and as durable as the stars, how few that con- 
tinue long to interest mankind ! The victory of yesterday is 
reversed by the defeat of to-day; the star of military glory, 
rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and 
disaster hang on the heels of conquest and renown ; victor 
and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion, and the world 
holds on its course, with the loss only of so many lives and so 
much treasure. 

But if this is frequently, or generally, the fortune of military 
achievements, it is not always so. There are enterprises, mili- 
tary as well as civil, that sometimes check the current of events ; 
give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their conse- 
quences through ages. We see their importance in their re- 
sults, and call them great, because great things follow. There 
have been battles which have fixed the fate of nations. These 
come down to us in history with a solid and permanent influ- 
ence, not created by a display of glittering armor, the rush of 
adverse battalions, the sinking and rising of pennons, the flight, 
the pursuit, and the victory ; but by their effect in advancing 
or retarding human knowledge, in overthrowing or establishing 
despotism, in extending or destroying human happiness. When 
the traveller pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the 
emotions which strongly agitate his breast ? what is that glori- 
ous recollection that thrills through his frame, and suffuses his 
eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian valor 
were here most signally displayed ; but that Greece herself 
was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the event which 
has rendered it immortal, he refers all the succeeding glories of 
the republic. It is because, if that day had gone otherwise, 
Greece had perished. It is because he perceives that her phi- 
losophers and orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and 
architects, her government and free institutions point backward 
to Marathon, and that, their future existence seems to been sus- 
pended on the contingency, whether the Persian or Grecian 
banner should wave victorious in the beams of that day's set- 
ting sun. And as his imagination kindles at the retrospect, he 
is transported back to the interesting moment ; he counts the 
fearful odds of the contending hosts ; his interest for the result 
overwhelms him ; he trembles as if it was still uncertain, and 
seems to doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato, 
Demosthenes, Sophocles, and Phidias, as secure, yet, to himself 
and to the world. 



PUBLIC VIRTUE. 49 

Public Virtue.— R. Clay. 

I rose not to say one word which should wound the feelings 
of President Tyler. The senator says that, if placed in like 
circumstances, I would have been the last man to avoid putting 
a direct veto upon the Bill, had it met my disapprobation ; and 
he does me the honor to attribute to me high qualities of stern 
and unbending intrepidity. I hope, that in all that relates to 
personal firmness, all that concerns a just appreciation of the 
insignificance of human life — whatever may be attempted to 
threaten or alarm a soul not easily swayed by opposition, or 
awed or intimidated by menace — a stout heart and a steady 
eye, that can survey, unmoved and undaunted, any mere per- 
sonal perils that assail this poor, transient, perishing frame, I 
may, without disparagement, compare with other men. But 
there is a sort of courage, which, I frankly confess it, I do not 
possess, a boldness to which I dare not aspire, a valor which I 
cannot covet. I cannot lay myself down in the way of the 
welfare and happiness of my country. That I cannot, I have 
not the courage to do. I cannot interpose the power with 
which I may be invested, a power conferred, not for my per- 
sonal benefit, nor for my aggrandizement, but for my country's 
good, to check her onward march to greatness and glory. I 
have not courage enough. I am too cowardly for that. I would 
not, I dare not, in the exercise of such a trust, lie down, and 
place my body across the path that leads my country to pros- 
perity and happiness. This is a sort of courage widely differ- 
ent from that which a man may display in his private conduct 
and personal relations. Personal or private courage is totally 
distinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts the 
patriot to offer himself a voluntary sacrifice to his country's 
good." 

Apprehensions of the imputation of the want of firmness 
sometimes impel us to perform rash and inconsiderate acts. It 
is the greatest courage to be able to bear the imputation of the 
want of courage. But pride, vanity, egotism, so unamiable and 
offensive in private life, are vices which partake of the charac- 
ter of crimes, in the conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate 
victim of these passions cannot see beyond the little, petty, 
contemptible circle of his own personal interests. All his 
thoughts are withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on 
his consistency, his firmness, himself. The high, the exalted, 
the sublime emotions of a patriotism, which, soaring toward 
heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and is ah- 
3 



50 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good and the glory 
of one's country, are never felt in his impenetrable bosom. That 
patriotism which, catching its inspirations from the immortal 
God, and leaving at an immeasurable distance below all lesser, 
grovelling, personal interests and feelings, animates and prompts 
to deeds of self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death it- 
self — that is public virtue; that is the noblest, the sublimest of 
all public virtues / 



The Dying Alchymist.—N. P. Willis. 

The night wind with a desolate moan swept by ; 
And the old shutters of the turret swung 
Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 



The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy, and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
Muttered a curse on death ! The silent room, 
Prom its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself:— 

I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
I thought to pierce the eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye ; 
I felt — oh God ! it seemeth even now 
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ? 



THE DYHSTG ALOHYMIST. 61 

And yet it is — I feel, 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ; 
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 

And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand — 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

And this is death! But why 
Feel I this wild recoil? It cannot be 
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! 

"Would it not leap to fly, 
Like a chained eagle at its parent's call ? 
I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all ! 

Yet thus to pass away! — 
To live but for a hope that mocks at last — 
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 

To waste the light of day, 
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought — 
All that we have and are — for this — for naught! 

Grant me another year 
God of my spirit ! — but a day — to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know something here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 

Vain — vain ! — my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And I am freezing — burning — 
Dying ! Oh God ! if I might only live! 
My phial Ha! it thrills me — I revive. 



Ay — were not man to die 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here — 

Could he but train his eye — 
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour — 
Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 

Earth has no mineral strange — 
Th' illimitable air no hidden wings — 
Water no quality in covert springs, 

And fire no power to change — 
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 

Oh, but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky — 
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye — 

To hurl the lightning back — 



52 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls — 
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls — 

And more, much more — for now 
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move — 
To nurse and purify this human love — 

To clear the godlike brow 
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down 
"Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one : 

This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream — 
To live — oh God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death Aha 1 I reel — 

Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye- 
Cover me! save me ! God of heaven ! I die ! 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild, 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire — a sun-bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down — an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. Oh ! how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath outfiown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest 



New Netherlands and New York. — Bancroft. 

Sombre forests shed a melancholy grandeur over the useless 
magnificence of nature, and hid in their deep shades the rich 
soil which the sun had never warmed. No axe had levelled 
the giant progeny of the crowded groves, in which the fantastic 
forms of withered limbs, that had been blasted and riven by 
lightning, contrasted strangely with the verdant freshness of a 
younger growth of branches. The wanton grape-vine, seeming 



NEW NETHERLANDS AND NEW YORK. 53 

by its own power to have sprung from the earth, and to have 
fastened its leafy coils on the top of the tallest forest tree, 
swung in the air with every breeze, like the loosened shrouds 
of a ship. Trees might everywhere be seen breaking from 
their root in the marshy soil, and threatening to fall with the 
first rude gust; while the ground was strown with the ruins 
of former forests, over which a profusion of wild flowers wasted 
their freshness in mockery of the gloom. Reptiles sported in 
the stagnant pools, or crawled unharmed over piles of moulder- 
ing trees. The spotted deer couched among the thickets ; but 
not to hide, for there was no pursuer ; and there were none but 
wild animals to crop the uncut herbage of the productive 
prairies. Silence reigned, broken, it may have been, by the 
flight of land-birds or the flapping of water-fowl, and rendered 
more dismal by the howl of beasts of prey. The streams, not 
yet limited to a channel, spread over sand-bars, tufted with 
copses of willow, or waded through wastes of reeds ; or slowly 
but surely undermined the groups of sycamores that grew by 
their side. The smaller brooks spread out into sedgy swamps, 
that were overhung by clouds of mosquitoes ; masses of decay- 
ing vegetation fed the exhalations with the seeds of pestilence, 
and made the balmy air of the summer's evening as deadly as 
it seemed grateful. Vegetable life and death were mingled 
hideously together. The horrors of corruption frowned on the 
fruitless fertility of uncultivated nature. 

And man, the occupant of the soil, was wild as the savage 
scene, in harmony with the rude nature by which he was sur- 
rounded ; a vagrant over the continent, in constant warfare 
with his fellow-man ; the bark of the birch his canoe ; strings of 
shells his ornaments, his record, and his coin ; the roots of the 
forest among his resources for food ; his knowledge in archi- 
tecture surpassed, both in strength and durability, by the skill 
of a beaver ; bended saplings the beams of his house ; the 
branches and rind of trees its roof ; drifts of forest-leaves his 
couch ; mats of bulrushes his protection against the winter's 
cold ; his religion the adoration of nature ; his morals the 
promptings of undisciplined instinct ; disputing with the wolves 
and bears the lordship of the soil, and dividing with the 
squirrel the wild fruits with which the universal woodlands 
abounded. . . . 

And how changed is the scene from that on which Hudson 
gazed ! The earth glows with the colors of civilization ; the 
banks of the streams are enamelled with, richest grasses ; wood- 
lands and cultivated fields are harmoniously blended ; the birds 



54 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

of spring find their delight in orchards and trim gardens, vari- 
egated with choicest plants from every temperate zone ; while 
the brilliant flowers of the tropics bloom from the windows of 
the green-house and the saloon. The yeoman, living like a 
good neighbor near the fields he cultivates, glories in the fruit- 
fulness of the valleys, and counts with honest exultation the 
flocks and herds that browse in safety on the hills. The thorn 
has given way to the rosebush ; the cultivated vine clambers 
over rocks where the brood of serpents used to nestle ; while 
industry smiles at the changes she has wrought, and inhales the 
bland air which now has health on its wings. 

And man is still in harmony with nature, which he has sub- 
dued, cultivated, and adorned. For him the rivers that flow to 
remotest climes mingle their waters ; for him the lakes gain new 
outlets to the ocean ; for him the arch spans the flood, and 
science spreads iron pathways to the recent wilderness ; for 
him the hills yield up the shining marble and the enduring 
granite ; for him the forests of the interior come down in im- 
mense rafts ; for him the marts of the city gather the produce 
of every clime, and libraries collect the works of genius of every 
language and every age. The passions of society are chastened 
into purity ; manners are made benevolent by civilization ; and 
the virtue of the country is the guardian of its peace. Science 
investigates the powers of every plant and mineral, to find 
medicines for disease ; schools of surgery rival the establish- 
ments of the Old World. An active daily press, vigilant from 
party interests, free even to dissoluteness, watches the progress 
of society, and communicates every fact that can interest hu- 
manity ; the genius of letters begins to unfold his powers in the 
warm sunshine of public favor. And while idle curiosity may 
take its walk in shady avenues by the ocean side, commerce 
pushes its wharves into the sea, blocks up. the wide rivers with 
its fleets, and, sending its ships, the pride of naval architecture, 
to every clime, defies every wind, outrides every tempest, and 
invades every zone. 






American History.— Vebplanck. 

The study of the history of most other nations fills the mind 
with sentiments not unlike those which the American traveller 
feels on entering the venerable and lofty cathedral of some 



AMERICAN HISTORY. 



55 



proud old city of Europe. Its solemn grandeur, its vastness, its 
obscurity, strike awe to his heart. From the richly painted 
windows, filled with sacred emblems and strange antique forms, 
a dim religious light falls around. A thousand recollections of 
romance and poetry, and legendary story, come throngmg in 
upon him. He is surrounded by the tombs of the mighty dead, 
rich with the labors of ancient art, and emblazoned with the 
pomp of heraldry. 

What names does he read upon them ? Those of princes and 
nobles who are now remembered only for their vices ; and of 
sovereigns, at whose death no tears were shed, and whose mem- 
ories lived not an hour in the affections of their people. There, 
too, he sees other names, long familiar to him for their guilty or 
ambiguous fame. There rest, the blood-stained soldier of for- 
tune — the orator, who was ever the ready apologist of tyran- 
ny — great scholars, who were the pensioned flatterers of 
power — and poets, who profaned the high gift of genius, to 
pamper the vices of a corrupted court. 

Our own history, on the contrary, like that poetical temple 
of fame, reared by the imagination of Chaucer, and decorated 
by the taste of Pope, is almost exclusively dedicated to the 
memory of the truly great. Or rather, like the Pantheon of 
Rome, it stands in calm and severe beauty amid the ruins of 
ancient magnificence and " the toys of modern state." Within, 
no idle ornament encumbers its bold simplicity. The pure light 
of heaven enters from above, and sheds an equal and serene 
radiance around. As the eye wanders about its extent, it be- 
holds the unadorned monuments of brave and good men who 
have bled or toiled for their country, or it rests on votive tab- 
lets inscribed with the names of the best benefactors of man- 
kind. 

We have been repeatedly told, and sometimes, too, in a tone 
of affected impartiality, that the highest praise which can fairly 
be given to the American mind, is that of possessing an en- 
lightened selfishness ; that if the philosophy and talents of this 
country, with all their effects, were forever swept into oblivion, 
the loss would be felt only by ourselves ; and that if to the ac- 
curacy of this general charge, the labors of Franklin present an 
illustrious, it is still but a solitary exception. 

The answer may be given, confidently and triumphantly. Is 
it nothing for the universal good of mankind to have car- 
ried into successful operation a system of self-government, 
uniting personal liberty, freedom of opinion, and equality of 
rights, with national power and dignity ; such as had before ex- 



6 6 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

isted only in the Utopian dreams of philosophers ? Is it nothing, 
in moral science, to have anticipated, in sober reality, numerous 
plans of reform in civil and criminal jurisprudence, which are, 
but now, received as plausible theories by the politicians and 
economists of Europe ? Is it nothing to have been able to call 
forth on every emergency, either in war or peace, a body of 
talents always equal to the difficulty ? Is it nothing to have, 
in less than a half century, exceedingly improved the sciences of 
political economy, of law, and of medicine, with all their auxil- 
iary branches ; to have enriched human knowledge by the accu- 
mulation of a great mass of useful facts and observations, and to 
have augmented the power and the comforts of civilized man, by 
miracles of mechanical invention ? Is it nothing to have given 
the world examples of disinterested patriotism, of political wis- 
dom, of public virtue ; of learning, eloquence, and valor, never 
exerted, save for some praiseworthy end ? It is sufficient to 
have briefly suggested these • considerations ; every mind would 
anticipate me in filling up the details. 

No — Land of Liberty ! thy children have no cause to blush 
for thee. What though the arts have reared few monuments 
among us, and scarce a trace of the Muse's footstep is found in 
the paths of our forests, or along the banks of our rivers ; yet 
our soil has been consecrated by the blood of heroes, and by 
great and holy deeds of peace. Its wide extent has become 
one vast temple and hallowed asylum, sanctified by the prayers 
and blessings of the persecuted of every sect, and the wretched 
of all nations. 

Land of Refuge !— Land of Benedictions ! Those prayers 
still arise, and they still are heard : " May peace be within'thy 
walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces !" " May there be 
no decay, no leading into captivity, and no complaining in thy 
streets !" "May truth flourish out of the earth, and righteous- 
ness look down from Heaven 1" 



The American Forest Girl.— Hemans. 

"Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke ; — 

" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," — 
So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 



THE AMERIJAN FOREST GIRL. 57 

Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island blood, 
And his pressed lips looked marble. Fiercely bright, 
And high around him, blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the -wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face. But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Known but to Heaven that hour ? — Perchance a thought 
Of his far home, then so intensely wrought 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnum drooped ; or happily binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering with braided hair around the hearth 
Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face 
Its grave, sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessings from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good-night," might breathe from boyhood gone ! 
He started and looked up : — thick cypress boughs 

Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad, stormy firelight ; — savage brows, 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dungeon bars, 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with his gloom 
That happy hall in England ! Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear 
The secret of the forest ? To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young soldier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ; He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — the fondly reared — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! And fettered there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush 1 hark ! — a cry 
Breaks on the stem and dread solemnity — 
A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? 
A girl — a young, slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savannas and the leafy wild, 
Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead. 
3* 



58 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervor swayed, 
Even to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it -wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not die !" 
"He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrilled 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were stilled, 

Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed: their dark souls bowed before the maid, 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade 1 
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 
Something o'ermastered them from that young mien ; 
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their child-like faith, to token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken, 
They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death : 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypress tree ; 
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!" 



Liberty and Greatness— -Leo are. 

The name of Republic is inscribed upon the most imperish- 
able monuments of the species, and it is probable that it will con- 
tinue to be associated, as it has been in all past ages, with what- 
ever is heroic in character, and sublime in genius, and elegant 
and brilliant in the cultivation of arts and letters. It would 
not have been difficult to prove that the base hirelings who, in 
this age of legitimacy and downfall, have so industriously in- 
culcated a contrary doctrine, have been compelled to falsify 
history and abuse reason. I might have " called up antiquity 
from the old schools of Greece" to show that these apostles of 
despotism would have passed at Athens for barbarians and 
slaves. I might have asked triumphantly, what land had ever 
been visited with the influences of liberty, that did not flourish 
like the spring ? What people had ever worshipped at her 
altars, without kindling with a loftier spirit and putting forth 
more noble energies ? Where she had ever acted, that her 



LIBERTY AND GREATNESS. 59 

deeds had not been heroic ? Where she had ever spoken, that 
her eloquence had not been triumphant and sublime ? It might 
have been demonstrated that a state of society in which noth- 
ing is obtained by patronage — nothing is yielded to the acci- 
dents of birth and fortune — where those who are already dis- 
tinguished, must exert themselves lest they be speedily eclipsed 
by their inferiors, and these inferiors are, by every motive, 
stimulated to exert themselves that they may become distin- 
guished — and where, the lists being open to the whole world, 
without any partiality or exclusion, the champion who bears off 
the prize must have tasked his powers to the very uttermost, and 
proved himself the first of a thousand competitors — is necessa- 
rily more favorable to a bold, vigorous and manly way of think- 
ing and acting, than any other. I should have asked with 
Longinus — who but a Republican could have spoken the philip- 
pics of Demosthenes ? and what has the patronage of despo- 
tism ever done to be compared with the spontaneous productions 
of the Attic, the Roman, and the Tuscan muse ? 

With respect to ourselves, would it not be enough to say that 
we live under a form of government and in a state of society to 
which the world has never yet exhibited a parallel ? Is it then 
nothing to be free i How many nations, in the whole annals of 
human kind, have proved themselves worthy of being so ? Is 
it nothing that we are Republicans ? Were all men as enlight- 
ened, as brave, as proud as they ought to be, would they suffer 
themselves to be insulted with any other title ? Is it nothing, 
that so many independent sovereignties should be held together 
in such a confederacy as ours ? What does history teach us of 
the difficulty of instituting and maintaining such a polity, and 
of the glory that, of consequence, ought to be given to those 
who enjoy its advantages in so much perfection and on so grand 
a scale ? For, can anything be more striking and sublime, than 
the idea of an imperial republic, spreading over an extent of 
territory more immense than the empire of the Caesars, in the 
accumulated conquests of a thousand years — without praefects 
or proconsuls or publicans — founded in the maxims of common 
sense — employing within itself no arms, but those of reason — 
and known to its subjects only by the blessings it bestows or 
perpetuates, yet capable of directing, against a foreign foe, all 
the energies of a military despotism — a Republic, in which men 
are completely insignificant, and principles and laws exercise, 
throughout its vast dominion, a peaceful and irresistible sway, 
blending in one divine harmony such various habits and conflict- 
ing opinions, and mingling in our institutions the light of phi- 



60 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

losophy with all that is dazzling in the associations of heroic 
achievement and extended domination, and deep-seated and 
formidable power ! 



Character of Washington,— -Fisher Ames. 

Great generals have arisen in all ages of the world, and 
perhaps most in those of despotism and darkness. In times of 
violence and convulsion, they rise, by the force of the whirl- 
wind, high enough to ride in it, and direct the storm. Like 
meteors, they glare on the black clouds with a splendor, which, 
while it dazzles and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the dark- 
ness. The fame of heroes is indeed growing vulgar; they 
multiply in every long war ; they stand in history, and thicken 
in their ranks, almost as undistinguished as their own soldiers. 

But such a chief magistrate as "Washington appears like 
the pole-star in a clear sky, to direct the skillful statesman. 
His Presidency will form an epoch, and be distinguished as the 
age of Washington. Like the milky way, it whitens along its 
alloted portion of the hemisphere. The latest generations of 
men will survey, through the telescope of history, the space 
where so many virtues blend their rays, and delight to sepa- 
rate them into groups and distinct virtues. As the best illus- 
tration of them, the living monument, to which the first of 
patriots would have chosen to consign his fame, it is my earnest 
prayer to heaven, that our country may subsist, even to that 
late day, in the plenitude of its liberty and happiness, and min- 
gle its mild glory with Washington's. 



Nature's Gentleman.— Eliza Cook. 

"Whom do we dub as gentleman? — the knave, the fool, the brute — 
If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit ! 
The parchment scroll of titled line — the ribbon at the knee, 
Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree : 
But Nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born, 
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn ; 
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine, 
And cries, exulting, " Who can make a gentleman like mine V* 



NATURE'S GENTLEMAN. 61 

She may not spend her common skill about the outward part, 

But showers her beauty, grace, and light upon the brain and heart ; 

She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume — 

The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom : 

Should fortune pour her welcome store and useful gold abound, 

He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round ; 

The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end designed, 

"When held by Nature's gentleman — the good, the just, the kind. 

He turns not from the cheerless home where sorrow's offspring dwell; 

He'll greet the peasant in his hut— the culprit in his cell ; 

He stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love ; 

He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above: 

The orphan child — the friendless one — the luckless, or the poor, 

Will never meet his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door ; 

His kindred circles all mankind— his country all the globe — 

An honest name his jewelled star, and truth his ermine robe. 

He wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control ; 
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul ; 
He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life, 
But will not love the revel scene, or heed the brawling strife. 
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honeyed tongue ; 
He's social with the grey-haired one, and merry with the young ; 
He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game, 
And shines as Nature's gentleman in every place the same. 

No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word, 

No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard ; 

He'll suit his bearing to the hour — laugh, listen, learn, or teach ; 

With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech : 

He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed ; 

He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed : 

Justice and Mercy form his code — he puts his trust in Heaven ; 

His prayer is, " If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven !" 

Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are, 
Each shining in his hallowed sphere, as virtue's polar star ; 
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark, 
Yet — yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark : 
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride, 
Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide : 
They hold the rank no king can give — no station can disgrace; 
Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place. 



Discovery and Conquest of America.— -James Montgomery. 

Then first Columbus,, with the mighty hand 
Of grasping genius, weighed the sea and land ; 



62 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The floods o'erbalanced : where the tide of light, 
Day after day, rolled down the gulf of night, 
There seemed one waste of waters : long in vain 
His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main; 
When sudden, as creation burst from naught, 
Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought, 
Light, order, beauty ! — While his mind explored 
The unveiling mystery, his heart adored ; 
Where'er sublime imagination trod, 
He heard the voice, he saw the face, of God. 

The winds were prosperous, and the billows bore 
The brave adventurer to the promised shore ; 
Far in the west, arrayed in purple light, 
Dawned the new world on his enraptured sight : 
Not Adam, loosened from the encumbering earth, 
Waked by the breath of God to instant birth, 
With sweeter, wilder wonder gazed around, 
When life within, and light without, he found; 
When, all creation rushing o'er his soul, 
He seemed to live and breathe throughout the whole. 
So felt Columbus, when divinely fair, 
At the last look of resolute despair, 
The Hesperian isles, from distance dimly blue, 
With gradual beauty opened on his view. 
In that proud moment his transported mind 
The morning and the evening worlds combined, 
And made the sea, that sundered them before, 
A bond of peace, uniting shore to shore. 

Vain, visionary hope ! rapacious Spain 
Followed her hero's triumph o'er the main, 
Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried, 
Where Moor and Christian desperately died. 
A rabid race, fanatically bold, 
And steeled to cruelty by lust of gold, 
Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored, 
The cross their standard, but their faith the sword; 
Their steps were graves ; o'er prostrate realms they trod 
They worshipped Mammon while they vowed to God. 

Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell 
How Cortez conquered, Montezuma fell : 
How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew 
The sun's resplendent empire in Peru ; 
How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood, 
And raised his voice against a sea of blood, 
Whose chilling waves recoiled, while he foretold 
His country's ruin by avenging gold. 
That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell, 
That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell, 
Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doomed to shed 
Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head; 
For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away — 
His gold and he were every nation's prey. 



RETUKN OF COLUMBUS. 63 



Discovery of America*— Washington Irving. 

The letter of Columbus to the Spanish monarchs, announcing 
his discovery, had produced the greatest sensation at court. 
The event it communicated was considered the most extraor- 
dinary of their prosperous reign ; and following so close upon 
the conquest of Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of divine 
favor for that triumph achieved in the cause of the true faith. 
The sovereigns themselves were for a time dazzled and be- 
wildered by this sudden and easy acquisition of a new empire, 
of indefinite extent, and apparently boundless wealth ; and their 
first idea was to secure it beyond the reach of question or com- 
petition. Shortly after his arrival in Seville, Columbus received 
a letter from them, expressing their great delight, and request- 
ing him to repair immediately to court, to concert plans for a 
second and more extensive expedition. As the summer was 
already advancing, the time favorable for a voyage, they desired 
him to make any arrangements at Seville, or elsewhere, that 
might hasten the expedition, and to inform them by the return 
of the courier what was necessary to be done on their part. 
This letter was addressed to him by the title of " Don Christo- 
pher Columbus, our admiral of the Ocean sea, and viceroy and 
governor of the islands discovered in the Indias ;" at the same 
time he was promised still further rewards. Columbus lost no 
time in complying with the commands of the sovereigns. He 
sent a memorandum of the ships, men, and munitions that would 
be requisite ; and having made such dispositions at Seville as 
circumstances permitted, set out on his journey for Barcelona, 
taking with him the six Indians, and the various curiosities and 
productions which he had brought from the New World. 

The fame of his discovery had resounded throughout the na- 
tion, and as his route lay through several of the finest and moj «... 
populous provinces of Spain, his journey appeared like the pro- 
gress of a sovereign. Wherever he passed, the surrounding 
country poured forth its inhabitants, who lined the road and 
thronged the villages. In the large towns, the streets, windows, 
and balconies were filled with eager spectators, who rent the 
air with acclamations. His journey was continually impeded by 
the multitude pressing to gain a sight of him, and of the Indians, 
who were regarded with as much admiration as if they had 
been natives of another planet. It was impossible to satisfy the 
craving curiosity which assailed himself and his attendants, at 



64- THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

every stage, with innumerable questions ; popular rumor as 
usual had exaggerated the truth, and had filled the newly found 
country with all kinds of wonders. 

It was about the middle of April that Columbus arrived at 
Barcelona, where every preparation had been made to give him 
a solemn and magnificent reception. The beauty and serenity 
of the weather, in that genial season and favored climate, con- 
tributed to give splendor to this memorable ceremony. As he 
drew near the place, many of the more youthful courtiers and 
hidalgos of gallant bearing, together with a vast concourse of 
the populace, came forth to meet and welcome him. His en- 
trance into this noble city has been compared to one of those 
triumphs which the Romans were accustomed to decree to con 1 
querors. First were paraded the Indians, painted according to 
their savage fashion, and decorated with tropical feathers, and 
with their national ornaments of gold ; after these were borne 
various kinds of live parrots, together with stuffed birds and 
animals of unknown species, and rare plants supposed to be of 
precious qualities ; while great care was taken to make a con- 
spicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other deco- 
rations of gold, which might give an idea of the wealth of the 
newly discovered regions. After these followed Columbus, on 
horseback, surrounded by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chiv- 
alry. The streets were almost impassable from the countless 
multitude ; the windows and balconies were crowded with the 
fair ; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed 
a& if the public eye could not be sated with gazing on these 
trophies of an unknown world ; or on the remarkable man 
by whom it had been discovered. There was a sublimity in 
this event that mingled a solemn feeling with the public joy. 
It was looked upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Provi- 
dence in reward for the piety of the monarchs ; and the majes- 
tic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, so different 
from the youth and buoyancy that are generally expected from 
roving enterprise, seemed in harmony with the grandeur and 
dignity of his achievement. 

To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, the sov- 
ereigns had ordered their throne to be placed in public, under a 
rich canopy of brocade of gold, in a vast and splendid saloon. 
Here the king and queen awaited his arrival, seated in state, 
with the Prince Juan beside them ; and attended by the digni- 
taries of their court, and the principal nobility of Castile, Va- 
lentia, Catalonia, and Aragon ; all impatient to behold the man 
who had conferred so incalculable a benefit upon the nation. 



RETURN OF COLUMBUS. 65 

At length Columbus entered the hall, surrounded by a brilliant 
crowd of cavaliers, among whom, says Las Casas, he was con- 
spicuous for his stately and commanding person, which, with 
his countenance rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave him 
the august appearance of a senator of Rome. A modest smile 
lighted up his features, showing that he enjoyed the state and 
glory in which he came ; and certainly nothing could be more 
deeply moving to a mind inflamed by noble ambition, and con- 
scious of having greatly deserved, than these testimonials of 
the admiration and gratitude of a nation, or rather of a world. 
As Columbus approached, the sovereigns rose, as if receiving a 
person of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he requested 
to kiss their hands ; but there was some hesitation on the part 
of their majesties to permit this act of vassalage. Raising him 
in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat himself 
in their presence ; a rare honor in this proud and punctilious 
court. 

At the request of their majesties, Columbus now gave an ac- 
count of the most striking events of his voyage, and a descrip- 
tion of the islands which he had discovered. He displayed the 
specimens he had brought of unknowm birds and other animals ; 
of rare plants of medicinal and aromatic virtue; of native gold in 
dust, in crude masses, or labored into barbaric ornaments ; and 
above all, the natives of these countries, who were objects of 
intense and inexhaustible interest ; since there is nothing to man 
so curious as the varieties of his own species. All these he 
pronounced mere harbingers of greater discoveries he had yet 
to make, which would add realms of incalculable wealth to the 
dominions of their majesties and whole nations of proselytes to 
the true faith. * 

The words of Columbus were listened to with profound 
emotion by the sovereigns. When he had finished, they sunk 
on their knees, and, raising their clasped hands to heaven, their 
eyes filled with tears of joy and gratitude, they poured forth 
thanks and praises to God for so great a providence ; all pres- 
ent followed their example, a deep and solemn enthusiasm per- 
vaded that splendid assembly, and prevented all common accla- 
mations of triumph. The anthem of Te Deum laudamns, 
chanted by the choir of the royal chapel, with the melodious 
accompaniments of the instruments, rose up from the midst in a 
full body of sacred harmony, bearing up as it were the feelings 
and thoughts of the auditors to heaven, " so that," says the 
venerable Las -Casas, " it seemed as if in that hour they com- 
municated with celestial delights." Such was the solemn and 



6a THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

pious manner in which the brilliant court of Spain celebrated 
this sublime event ; offering up a grateful tribute of melody 
and praise, and giving glory to God for the discovery of another 
world. 



The Voices of History.— R. Monckton Milnes. 

The poet in his vigil hears 

Time flowing through the night — 
A mighty stream, absorbing tears, 

And bearing down delight ; 
There,- resting on his bank of thought 

He listens, till his soul 
The voices of the waves has caught — 

The meaning of their roll. 

First, wild and wildering as the strife 

Of earthly winds and seas, 
Resounds the long historic life 

Of warring dynasties : 
Uncertain right and certain wrong 

In onward conflict driven. 
The threats and tramplings of the strong 

Beneath a brazen heaven. 

The cavernous unsounded East 

Outpours an evil tide, 
Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest, 

The chant of shepheid bride : 
How can we catch the angel-word, 

How mark the prophet-sound, 
Mid thunders like Niagara's, heard 

An hundred miles around ? 

From two small springs that rise and blend, 

And leave their Latin home, 
The waters East and West extend — 

The ocean-power of Rome ; 
Voices of victories ever-won, 

Of pride that will not stay, 
Billows that burst and perish on 

The shores they wear away. 

Till, in a race of fierce delight, 

Tumultuous battle forth, 
The snows amast on many a height, 

The cataracts of the North : 






THE VOICES OF HISTORY. 67 

What can we hear beside the roar, 

What see beneath the foam, 
What but the wrecks that strew the shore, 

And cries of falling Rome ? 

Nor, when a purer faith had traced 

Safe channels for the tide, 
Did streams with Eden-lilies graced 

In Eden-sweetness glide ; 
While the deluded gaze admires 

The smooth and shining flow, 
Vile interests and insane desires 

Gurgle and rage below. 

If history has no other sounds, 

Why should we listen more ? 
Spirit ! despise terrestrial bounds, 

And seek a happier shore ; 
Yet pause ! for on thine inner ear 

A mystic music grows, 
And mortal man shall never hear 

That diapason's close. 

Nature awakes ! a rapturous tone, 

Still different, still the same — 
Eternal effluence from the throne 

Of Him without a name ; 
A symphony of worlds begun, 

Ere sin the glory mars, 
The cymbals of the new-born sun, 

The trumpets of the stars. 

Then beauty all her subtlest chords 

Dissolves and knits again, 
And law composes jarring words 

In one harmonious chain : 
And loyalty's enchanting notes 

Outswelling fade away, 
While knowledge, from ten thousand throats, 

Proclaims a graver sway. 

Well, if, by senses unbefooled, 

Attentive souls may scan 
Those great ideas that have ruled 

The total mind of man ; 
Yet is there music deeper still, 

Of fine and holy woof, 
Comfort and joy to all that will 

Keep ruder noise aloof. 

A music simple as the sky, 

Monotonous as the sea, 
Recurrent as the flowers that die 

And rise again in glee ; 



68 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

A melody that childhood sings 
Without a thought of art, 

Drawn from a few familiar strings, 
The fibres of the heart. 

Through tent, and cot, and proud saloon, 

This audible delight 
Of nightingales that love the noon, 

Of larks that court the night — 
We feel it all — the hopes and fears 

That language faintly tells, 
The spreading smiles — the passing tears- 

The meetings and farewells. 

These harmonies that all can share, 

When chronicled by one, 
Enclose us like the living air, 

Unending, unbegun ; — 
Poet ! esteem thy noble part, 

Still listen, still record, 
Sacred historian of the heart, 

And moral nature's lord ! 



The Present Age — Channing. 

The grand idea of humanity, of the importance of man as 
man, is spreading silently, but surely. Even the most abject 
portions of society are visited by some dreams of a better con- 
dition for which they were designed. The grand doctrine, that 
every human being should have the means of self-culture, of 
progress in knowledge and virtue, of health, comfort, and hap- 
piness ; of exercising the powers and affections of a man, this is 
slowly taking its place as the highest social truth. That the 
world was made for all, and not for a few ; that society is to 
care for all ; that no human being shall perish but through his 
own fault ; that the great end of government is to spread a 
shield over the rights of all — these propositions are growing 
into axioms, and the spirit of them is coming forth in all the 
departments of life. . . . 

The Present Age ! In these brief words what a world of 
thought is comprehended ! what infinite movements ! what joys 
and sorrows ! what hope and despair ! what faith and doubt ! 
what silent grief and loud lament ! what fierce conflicts and 
subtle schemes of policy ! what private and public revolutions ! 



THE PRESENT AGE. 69 

In the period through which many of us have passed, what 
thrones have been shaken ! what hearts have bled ! what mil- 
lions have been butchered by their fellow-creatures ! what 
hopes of philanthropy have been blighted ! And at the same 
time what magnificent enterprises have been achieved ! what 
new provinces won to science and art ! what rights and liberties 
secured to nations ! It is a privilege to have lived in an age so 
stirring, so pregnant, so eventful. It is an age never to be for- 
gotten. Its voice of warning and encouragement is never to 
die. Its impression on history is indelible. Amidst its events, 
the American Revolution, the first distinct, solemn assertion of 
the rights of men, and the French Revolution, that volcanic 
force which shook the earth to its centre, are never to pass from 
men's minds. Over this age the night will indeed gather more 
and more as time rolls away ; rjut in that night two forms will 
appear, Washington and Napoleon, the one a lurid meteor, the 
other a benign, serene, and undecaying star. Another American 
name will live in history, your Franklin ; and the kite which 
brought lightning from heaven will be seen sailing in the clouds 
by remote posterity, when the city where he dwelt may be 
known only by its ruins. There is, however, something greater 
in the age than in its greatest men ; it is the appearance of a 
new power in the world, the appearance of the multitude of 
men on that stage where as yet the few have acted their 
parts alone. This influence is to endure to the end of time. 
What more of the present is to survive ? Perhaps much, of 
which we now take no note. The glory of an age is often 
hidden from itself. Perhaps some word has been spoken 
in our day which we have not deigned to hear, but which 
is to grow clearer and louder through all ages. Perhaps 
some silent thinker among us is at work in his closet whose 
name is to fill the earth. Perhaps there sleeps in his cra- 
dle some reformer who is to move the church and the 
world, who is to open a new era in history, who is to fire 
the human soul with new hope and new daring. What else 
is to- survive the age ? That which the age has little thought 
of, but which is living in us all ; I mean the Soul, the Im- 
mortal Spirit. Of this all ages are the unfoldings, and it is 
greater than all. We must not feel, in the contemplation of 
the vast movements of our own and former times, as if we our- 
selves were nothing. I repeat it, we are greater than all. We 
are to survive our age, to comprehend it, and to pronounce its 
sentence. As yet, however, we are encompassed with dark- 
ness. The issues of our time, how obscure ! The future, into 



. 



YO THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

which it opens, who of us can foresee ? To the Father of all 
Ages I commit this future with humble, yet courageous and 
unfaltering hope. 



Literature and Liberty,— Edward Everett. 

Literature is the voice of the age and the state. The char- 
acter, energy, and resources of the country are reflected and 
imaged forth in the conceptions of its great minds. They are 
organs of the time ; they speak not their own language, they 
scarce think their own thoughts ; but under an impulse like the 
prophetic enthusiasm of old, they must feel and utter the senti- 
ments which society inspires. They do not create, they obey 
the spirit of the age ; the serene and beautiful spirit descended 
from the highest heaven of liberty, who laughs at our precon- 
ceptions, and, with the breath of his mouth, sweeps before him 
the men and the nations that cross his path. By an uncon- 
scious instinct, the mind, in the action of its powers, adapts 
itself to the number and complexion of the other minds with 
which it is to enter into communion or conflict. As the voice 
falls into the key which is suited to the space to be filled, the 
mind, in the various exercises of its creative faculties, strives 
with curious search for that master-note, which will awaken a 
vibration from the surrounding community, and which, if it do 
not find it, is itself too often struck dumb. 

For this reason, from the moment in the destiny of nations, 
that they descend from their culminating point, and begin to 
decline, from that moment the voice of creative genius is hushed, 
and at best, the age of criticism, learning, and imitation suc- 
ceeds. "When Greece ceased to be independent, the forum and 
the stage became mute. The patronage of Macedonian, Alex- 
andrian, and Pergamean princes was lavished in vain. They 
could not woo the healthy Muses of Hellas, from the cold 
mountain-tops of Greece, to dwell in their gilded halls. Nay, 
though the fall of greatness, the decay of beauty, the waste of 
strength, and the wreck of power have ever been among the 
favorite themes of the pensive muse, yet not a poet arose in 
Greece to chant her own elegy ; and it is after near three cen- 
turies, and from Cicero and Sulpicius, that we catch the first 



EXCELSIOR. 71 

notes of pious and pathetic lamentation over the fallen land of 
the arts. The freedom and genius of a country are invariably 
gathered into a common tomb, and there 

— " can only strangers breathe 
The name of that which was beneath." 



Excelsior,— Longfellow. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior 1 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide 1" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" O, stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine tree's withered branch I 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward, 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 



72 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior 1 



Discretionary Powers of Congress.— -w. Pinkney. 

Time, that withers the strength of man and " strews around 
him, like autumnal leaves, the ruins of his proudest monuments," 
produces great vicissitudes in modes of thinking and feeling. It 
brings along with it, in its progress, new circumstances — new 
combinations and modifications of the old — generating new 
views, motives, and caprices — new fanaticisms of endless variety 
— in short, new every thing. We ourselves are always chang- 
ing — and what to-day we have but a small desire to attempt, 
to-morrow becomes the object of our passionate aspirations. 

There is such a thing as enthusiasm, moral, religious, or polit- 
ical, or a compound of all three ; and it is wonderful what it 
will attempt, and from what imperceptible beginnings it some- 
times rises into a mighty agent. Rising from some obscure or 
unknown source, it first shows itself a petty rivulet, which 
scarcely murmurs over the pebbles that obstruct its way — then 
it swells into a fierce torrent, bearing all before it — and then 
again, like some mountain stream which occasional rains have 
precipitated upon the valley, it sinks once more into a rivulet, 
and finally leaves its channel dry. Such a thing has happened. 
I do not say that it is now happening. It would not become 
me to say so. But if it should occur, woe to the unlucky ter- 
ritory that should be struggling to make its way into the Union 
at the moment when the opposing inundation was at its height, 
and at the same instant this wide Mediterranean of discretionary 
powers, which it seems is ours, should open all its sluices, and, 
with a consentaneous rush, mingle with the turbid waters of 
the others. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. ?3 



The Prisoner of Chillon.— Byron. 

They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone : 
We could not move a single pace, 
"We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight; 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fettered in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old; 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 

Because our mother's brow was given 

To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 

And truly might it be distrest 

To see such bird in such a nest; 

The other was as pure of mind, 

But formed to combat with his kind ; 

Strong in his frame, and of a mood 

Which 'gainst the woi-ld in war had stood, 

And perished in the foremost rank 
With joy ; but not in chains to pine : 

His spirit withered with their clank, 
I saw it silently decline — 
And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 

Those relics of a home so dear. 

He was a hunter of the hills, 
Had followed there the deer and wolf ; 
To him this dungeon was a gulf, 

And fettered feet the worst of ills. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined : 
4 



^4 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

He loathed and put away his food : 
It "was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For -we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat ; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and clay by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

Oh G od ! it is a fearful thing . 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion ; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 



THE FLYING HEAD. f5 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rushed to him : I found him not, 

I only stirred in this black spot, 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew. 



The Flying Head.—C. F. Hoffman. 

" The Great God hath sent us signs in the sky ! we have heard uncommon noise in the 
heavens, and have seen heads fall down upon the earth !" Speech of Tahayadoris, a 
Mohawk sachem, at Albany, Oct. 25th, 1689. — Colden's Five Nations. 

It hath tell-tale tongues ; — this casing air 

That walls us in — and their wandering breath 

Will whisper the horror everywhere, 
That clings to that ruthless deed of death. 

And a vengeful eye from the gory tide 

Will open to blast the parricide. » 

The country about the bead-waters of the great Mohegan, 
(as the Hudson is sometimes called,) though abounding in game 
and fish, was never, in the recollection of the oldest Indians 
living, nor in that of their fathers' fathers, the permanent resi- 
dence of any one tribe. From the black mountain tarns, where 
the eastern fork takes its rise, to the silver strand of Lake Pleas- 
ant, through which the western branch makes its way after ris- 
ing in Sacondaga Lake, the wilderness that intervenes, and all 
the mountains round about the fountain-heads of the great river, 
have, from time immemorial, been infested by a class of beings 
with whom no good man would ever wish to come in contact. 

The young men of the Mohawk have, indeed, often traversed 
it, when, in years gone by, they went on the war-path after the 
hostile tribes of the north ; and the scattered and wandering 
remnants of their people, with an occasional hunting-party from 
the degenerate bands that survive at St. Regis, will yet occa- 






76 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sionally be tempted over these haunted grounds in quest of the 
game that still finds a refuge in that mountain region. The 
evil shapes that were formerly so troublesome to the red hunter, 
seem, in these later days, to have become less restless at his 
presence ; and, whether it be that the day of their power has 
gone by, or that their vindictiveness has relented at witnessing 
the fate which seems to be universally overtaking the people 
whom they once delighted to persecute — certain it is, that the 
few Indians who now find their way to this part of the country 
are never molested, except by the white settlers who are slowly 
extending their clearings among the wild hills of the north. 

The " Flying Head," which is supposed to have first driven 
the original possessors of these hunting-grounds, whosoever 
they were, from their homes, and which, as long as tradition 
ruririeth back, in the old day before the whites came hither, 
guarded them from the occupancy of every neighboring tribe, 
has not been seen for many years by any credible witness, though 
there are those who insist that it has more than once appeared 
to them, hovering, as their fathers used to describe it, over the 
lake in which it first had its birth. The existence of this fear- 
ful monster, however, has never been disputed. Rude repre- 
sentations of it are still occasionally met with in the crude 
designs of those degenerate aborigines who earn a scant sub- 
sistence by making birchen baskets and ornamented pouches for 
such travellers as are curious in their manufacture of wampum 
and porcupine quills ; and the origin and history of the Flying 
Head survives, while even the name of the tribe whose crimes 
first called it into Existence, has passed away for ever. 

It was a season of great severity with that forgotten people 
whose council-fires were lighted on the mountain promontory 
that divides Sacondaga from the sister lake into which it dis- 
charges itself. 

A long and severe winter, with but little snow, had killed 
the herbage at its roots, and the moose and deer had trooped 
off to the more luxuriant pastures along the Mohawk, whither 
the hunters of the hills dared not follow them. The fishing, 
too, failed ; and the famine became so devouring among the 
mountains, that whole families, who had no hunters to provide 
for them, perished outright. The young men would no longer 
throw the slender product of the chase into the common stock, 
and the women and children had to maintain life as well as they 
could upon the roots and berries the woods afforded them. 

The sufferings of the tribe became at length so galling, that 
the young and enterprising began to talk of migrating from the 



THE FLYING HEAD. 77 

ancient seat of their people; and, as it was impossible, sur- 
rounded as they were by hostile tribes, merely to shift their 
hunting-grounds for a season and return to them at some more 
auspicious period, it was proposed that if they could effect a 
secret march to the great lake off to the west of them, they 
should launch their canoes upon Ontario, and all move away to 
a new home beyond its broad waters. The wild rice, of which 
some had been brought into their country by a runner from a 
distant nation, would, they thought, support them in their per- 
ilous voyage along the shores of the great water, where it grows 
in such profusion ; and they believed that, once safely beyond 
the lake, it would be easy enough to find a new home abound- 
ing in game upon those flowery plains which, as they had heard, 
lay like one immense garden beyond the chain of inland seas. 

The old men of the tribe were indignant at the bare sugges- 
tion of leaving the bright streams and sheltered valleys, amid 
which their spring-time of life had- passed so happily. They 
doubted the existence of the garden regions of which their 
children spoke ; and they thought that if there were indeed 
such a country, it was madness to attempt to reach it in the way 
proposed. They said, too, that the famine was a scourge which 
the Master of Life inflicted upon his people for their crimes ; 
that if its pains were endured with the constancy and firmness 
that became warriors, the visitation would soon pass away; 
but that those who fled from it would only war with their des- 
tiny, and that chastisement would follow them, in some shape, 
wheresoever they might flee. Finally, they added that they 
would rather perish by inches on their native hills — they would 
rather die that moment, than leave them for ever, to revel in 
plenty upon stranger plains. 

" Be it so ; they have spoken !" exclaimed a fierce and inso- 
lent youth, springing to his feet and casting a furious glance 
around the council as the aged chief, who had thus addressed 
1 it, resumed his seat. " Be the dotard's words their own, my 
l brothers; let them die for the crimes they have even now ac- 
knowledged. We know of none ; our- unsullied summers have 
nothing to blush for. It is they that have drawn this curse 
upon our people : it is for them that our vitals are consuming 
with anguish, while our strength wastes away in the search of 
sustenance we cannot find ; or which, when found, we are com- 
pelled to share with those for whose misdeeds the Great Spirit 
hath placed it far from us. They have spoken — let them die. 
Let them die, if we are to remain to appease the angry Spirit ; and 
the food that now keeps life lingering in their shrivelled and useless 



78 THE PBACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

carcases, may then nerve the limbs of our young hunters, or keep 
our children from perishing. Let them die, if we are to move 
hence, for their presence will but bring a curse upon our path : 
their worn-out frames will give way upon the march ; and the 
raven that hovers over their corses will guide our enemies to 
the spot, and scent them like wolves upon our trail. Let them 
die, my brothers ; and, because they are still our tribesmen, let 
us give them the death of warriors, and that before we leave 
this ground." 

And with these words the young barbarian, pealing forth a 
ferocious whoop, buried his tomahawk in the head of the old 
man nearest to him. The infernal yell was echoed on every 
side ; a dozen flint hatchets were instantly raised by as many 
remorseless arms, and the massacre was wrought before one of 
those thus horribly sacrificed could interpose a plea of mercy. 
But for mercy they would not have pleaded, had opportunity 
been afforded them ; for even in the moment that intervened 
between the cruel sentence and its execution, they managed to 
show that stern resignation to the decrees of fate which an 
Indian warrior ever exhibits when death is near ; and each of 
the seven old men that perished thus barbarously, drew his 
wolf-skin mantle around his shoulders and nodded his head, as 
if inviting the death-blow that followed. 

The parricidal deed was done ! and it now became a ques- 
tion how to dispose of the remains of those whose lamp of life, 
while twinkling in the socket, had been thus fearfully quenched 
for ever. The act, though said to have been of not unfrequent 
occurrence among certain Indian tribes at similar exigencies, was 
one utterly abhorrent to the nature of most of our aborigines ; who, 
from their earliest years, are taught the deepest veneration for 
the aged. In the present instance, likewise, it had been so out- 
rageous a perversion of their customary views of duty among 
this simple people, that it was thought but proper to dispense 
with their wonted mode of sepulture, and dispose of the vic- 
tims of famine and fanaticism in some peculiar manner. They 
wished in some way to sanctify the deed, by offering up the 
bodies of the slaughtered to the Master of Life, and that with- 
out dishonoring the dead. It was, therefore, agreed to decapi- 
tate the bodies and burn them ; and as the nobler part could 
not, when thus dissevered, be buried with the usual forms, it 
was determined to sink the heads together to the bottom of the 
lake. 

The soulless trunks were accordingly consumed, and the 
ashes scattered to the winds. The heads were then deposited 



THE FLYING HEAD. 79 

singly, in separate canoes, which were pulled off in a kind of 
procession from the shore. The young chief who had suggest- 
ed the bloody scene of the sacrifice, rowed in advance, in order 
to designate the spot where they were to disburden themselves 
of their gory freight. Resting then upon his oars, he received 
each head in succession from his companions, and proceeded to 
tie them together by their scalp-locks, in order to sink the whole, 
with a huge stone, to the bottom. But the vengeance of the 
Master of Life overtook the wretch before his horrid office was 
accomplished ; for no sooner did he receive the last head into 
his canoe than it began to sink, his feet became entangled in the 
hideous chain he had been knotting together, and, before his 
horror-stricken companions could come to his rescue, he was 
dragged, shrieking, to the bottom. The others waited not to 
see the water settle over him, but pulled with their whole 
strength for the shore. 

The morning dawned calmly upon that unhallowed water, 
which seemed at first to show no traces of the deed it had wit- 
nessed the night before. But gradually, as the sun rose up 
higher, a few gory bubbles appeared to float over one smooth 
and turbid spot, which the breeze never crisped into a ripple. 
The parricides sat on the bank watching it all the day ; but 
sluggish, as at first, that sullen blot upon the fresh blue surface 
still remained. Another day passed over their heads, and the 
thick stain was yet there. On the third day the floating slime 
took a greener hue, as if colored by the festering mass beneath ; 
but coarse fibres of darker dye marbled its surface ; and on the 
fourth day these began to tremble along the water like weeds 
growing from the bottom, or the long tresses of a woman's scalp 
floating in a pool when no wind disturbs it. The fifth morning 
came, and the conscience-stricken watchers thought that the 
spreading-scalp — for such now all agreed it was — had raised 
itself from the water, and become rounded at the top, as if 
there were a head beneath it. Some thought, too, that they 
could discover a pair of hideous eyes glaring beneath the drip- 
ping locks. They looked on the sixth, and there indeed was a 
monstrous head floating upon the surface, as if anchored to the 
spot, around which the water — notwithstanding a blast which 
swept the lake — was calm and motionless as ever. 

Those bad Indians then wished to fly ; but the doomed par- 
ricides had not now the courage to encounter the warlike bands 
through which they must make their way in fleeing from their 
native valley. They thought, too, that, as nothing about the 
head, except the eyes, had motion, it could not harm them, 



80 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

resting quietly, as it did, upon the bosom of the waters. 
And, though it was dreadful to have that hideous gaze fixed 
for ever upon their dwellings, yet they thought that if the Mas- 
ter of Life meant this as an expiation for their phrenzied deed, 
they would strive to live on beneath those unearthly glances 
without shrinking or complaint. 

But a strange alteration had taken place in the floating head 
on the morning of the seventh day. A pair of broad wings, 
ribbed, like those of a bat, and with claws appended to each 
tendon, had grown out during the night ; and, buoyed up by 
these, it seemed to be now resting on the water. The water 
itself appeared to ripple more briskly near it, as if joyous that it 
was about to be relieved of its unnatural burden ; but still, for 
hours, the head maintained its first position. At last the wind 
began to rise, and, driving through the trough of the waves be- 
neath their expanded membrane, raised the wings from the 
surface, and seemed for the first time to endow them with 
vitality. They flapped harshly once or twiee upon the billows, 
and the head rose slowly and heavily from the lake. 

An agony of fear seized upon the gazing parricides, but the 
supernatural creation made no movement to injure them. It 
only remained balancing itself over the lake, and casting a 
shadow from its wings that wrapped the valley in gloom. But 
dreadful was it beneath their withering shade to watch that ter- 
rible monster, hovering like a falcon for the stoop, and know 
not upon what victim it might descend. It was then that they 
who had sown the gory seed from which it sprung to life, with 
one impulse sought to escape its presence by flight. Herding 
together like a troop of deer when the panther is prowling by, 
they rushed in a body from the scene. But the flapping of the 
demon pinions was soon heard behind them, and the winged 
head was henceforth on their track wheresoever it led. 

In vain did they cross one mountain barrier after another, 
plunge into the rocky gorge, or thread the mazy swamp, to es- 
cape their fiendish watcher. The Flying Head would rise on 
tireless wings over the loftiest summit, or dart in arrowy flight 
through the narrowest passages without furling its pinions : 
while their sullen threshing would be heard even in those vine- 
webbed thickets where the little ground-bird can scarcely make 
its way. The very caverns of the earth were no protection to 
the parricides from its presence ; for scarcely would they think 
they had found a refuge in some sparry cell, when, poised mid- 
way between the ceiling and the floor, they would behold the 
Flying Head glaring upon them. Sleeping or waking, the mon- 



THE FLYING HEAD. 81 

ster was ever near ; they paused to rest, but the rushing of its 
wings, as it swept around their resting-place in never-ending 
circles, prevented them from finding forgetfulness in repose ; or 
if, in spite of those blighting pinions that ever fanned them, 
fatigue did at moments plunge them in uneasy slumbers, the 
glances of the Flying Head would pierce their very eyelids, and 
steep their dreams in horror. 

What was the ultimate fate of that band of parricides, no 
one has ever known. Some say that the Master of Life kept 
them always young, in order that their capability of suffering 
might never wear out ; and these insist that the Flying Head 
is still pursuing them over the great prairies of the far- west. 
Others aver that the glances of the Flying Head turned each 
of them gradually into stone .; and these ■ say that their forms, 
though altered by the wearing of the rains in the lapse of long 
years, may still be recognized in those upright rocks which 
stand like human figures along the shores of some of the neigh- 
boring lakes ; though most Indians have another way of ac- 
counting for these figures. Certain it is, however, that the 
Flying Head always comes back to this part of the country 
about the times of the equinox ; and some say even that you 
may always hear the flapping of its wings whenever such a 
storm as that we have just weathered is brewing, 



Liberty and Prerogative.— ."Webster. 

The contest for ages has been to rescue liberty from the 
grasp of executive power. Whoever has engaged in her sacred 
cause, from the days of the downfall of those great aristocracies 
which had stood between the king and the people to the time 
of our own independence, has struggled for the accomplishment 
of that single object. On the long list of the champions of hu- 
man freedom, there is not one name dimmed by the reproach of 
advocating the extension of executive authority; on the con- 
trary, the uniform and steady purpose of all such champions 
has been to limit and restrain it. To this end the spirit of lib- 
erty, growing more and more enlightened, and more and more 
vigorous from age to age, has been battering for centuries 
against the solid butments of the feudal system. To this end, 
all that could be gained from the imprudence, snatched from 
4* 



82 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the weakness, or wrung from the necessities of crowned heads, 
has been carefully gathered up, secured, and hoarded as the 
rich treasures, the very jewels of liberty. To this end, popular 
and representative right has kept up its warfare against prerog- 
ative with v arious success ; sometimes writing the history of a 
whole age in blood ; sometimes witnessing the martyrdom of 
Sidneys and Russells, often baffled and repulsed, but still gain- 
ing, on the whole, and holding what it gained with a grasp 
which nothing but the complete extinction of its own being 
could compel it to relinquish. At length the great conquest 
over executive power, in the leading western states of Europe, 
has been accomplished. The feudal system, like other stupen- 
dous fabrics of past ages, is known only by the rubbish which it 
has left behind it. Crowned heads have been compelled to 
submit to the restraints of law, and the people, with that in- 
telligence and that spirit which make their voice resistless, have 
been able to say to prerogative, " Thus far shalt thou come, 
and no farther." I need hardly say, sir, that, into the full en- 
joyment of all which Europe has reached only through such 
slow and painful steps, we sprang at once, by the declaration of 
independence and by the establishment of free representative 
governments ; government borrowing more or less from the 
models of other free states, but strengthened, secured, im- 
proved in their symmetry, and deepened in their foundation by 
those great men of our own country, whose names will be as 
familiar to future times as if they were written on the arch of 
the sky. 



Antiquity of Freedom.— -Bryant. 

Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, 
That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground 
Was never touched by spades, and flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 
A fragrance from the cedars thickly set 
With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades- 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 
Back to the earliest days of Liberty. 



ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. SB 

Freedom \ thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave, 

"When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 

Armed to the teeth, art thou : one mailed hand 

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 

With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 

Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launched 

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee bound, 

The links are shivered, and the prison walls 

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands . 

Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 

While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, 

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 

And teach the reed to. utter simple airs. 

Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 

Thine only foes : and thou with him didst draw 

The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 

Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 

Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 

Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 

The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 

The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 

But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 

His withered hands, and from their ambush call 

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 

Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 

To catch thy gaze, and, uttering graceful words, 

To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 

Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, 

That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 

With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 

May'st thou unbrace thy corslet, or lay by 

Thy sword ! nor yet, O, Freedom ! close thy lids 

In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps ; 

And thou must watch and combat, till the day 



84 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest 

A while from tumult and the frauds of men 

These old and friendly solitudes invite 

Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 

Were young upon the inviolated Earth, 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



Mariana.— Aurkin> Tennyson, 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all, 

The rusted nails fell from the knots' 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange ' 
Unlifted was the clinking latch, ' 

Weeded and worn the .ancient thatch, 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 
He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary ; 
I would that I were dead f" ' 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried • 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, ' 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats 
She only said, « The night is dreary," 
He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" ' 

Upon the middle of the night 
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 

1 he cock sung out an hour ere light • 
From the dark fen the oxen's low 

Came to her: without hope of chano-e 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 

AW fi ™; d8 W0ke the greyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 



MARIANA. 85 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small, 

The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark, 
For leagues no other tree did dark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 
And wild winds bound within their cell 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creaked, 
The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, 
Or from the crevice peered about. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the horn* 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were dead !" 



86 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Venice. — Fattnt Kimble Butler. 

Night in her dark array- 
Steals o'er the ocean, 

And with departed day 
Hushed seems its motion. 

Slowly o'er yon blue coast 
Onward she's treading, 

Till its dark line is lost, 
'Neath her veil spreading. 

The bark on the rippling deep 

Hath found a pillow, 
And the pale moonbeams sleep 

On the green billow. 
Bound by her emerald zone 

Venice is lying, 
And round her marble crown 

Night winds are sighing. 

From the high lattice now 

Bright eyes are gleaming, 
That seem on night's dark brow, 

Brighter stars beaming. 
Now o'er the blue lagune 

Light barks are dancing, 
And 'neath the silver moon 

Swift oars are glancing. 

Strains from the mandolin 

Steal o'er the water, 
Echo replies between 

To mirth and laughter. 
O'er the wave seen afar, 

Brilliantly shining, 
Gleams like a fallen star 

Venice reclining. 



Importance of Preserving the Union.— Webster. 

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily in 
view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the 
preservation of our federal union. It is to that union we owe 
our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. 
It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever 



ON PRESERVING THE UNION. 87 

makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached 
only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of ad- 
versity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, 
prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign in- 
fluences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the 
dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its 
duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its bless- 
ings ; and although our territory has stretched out wider and 
wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have 
not outrun its protection, or its benefits. It has been to us all 
a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. 

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to 
see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have 
not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the 
bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have 
not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion 
to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of 
the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in 
the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be main- 
ly bent on considering, not how the union should be best pre- 
served, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people 
when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 

While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying pros- 
pects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond 
that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my 
day at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that on my 
vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes 
shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, 
may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored frag- 
ments of a once glorious union ; on states dissevered, discordant, 
belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may 
be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering 
glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now 
known and honored throughout the earth, still full high ad- 
vanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, 
not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured — 
bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as — What 
is all this worth ? Nor those other words of delusion and folly 
— liberty first, and union afterward — but everywhere, spread 
all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample 
folds as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every 
wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to 
every true American heart — liberty and union, now and for 
ever, one and inseparable ! 



88 THE PRACTICAL. ELOCUTIONIST. 

Freedom and Patriotism— Orville Dewey. 

God has stamped upon our very humanity this impress of 
freedom. It is the unchartered prerogative of human nature. A 
soul ceases to be a soul, in proportion as it ceases to be free. 
Strip it of this, and you strip it of one of its essential and char- 
acteristic attributes. It is this that draws the footsteps of the 
wild Indian to his wide and boundless desert-paths, and makes 
him prefer them to the gay saloons and soft carpets of sump- 
tuous palaces. It is this that makes it so difficult to bring him 
within the pale of artificial civilization. Our roving tribes are 
perishing — a sad and solemn sacrifice upon the altar of their 
wild freedom. They come among us, and look with childish 
wonder upon the perfection of our arts, and the splendor of our 
habitations : they submit with ennui and weariness, for a few 
da^/s, to our burdensome forms and restraints ; and then turn 
their faces to their forest homes, and resolve to push those 
homes onward till they sink in the Pacific waves, rather than 
not be free. 

It is thus that every people is attached to its country, just in 
proportion as it is free. I have seen my countrymen, and have 
been with them a fellow wanderer, in other lands ; and little did 
I see or feel to warrant the apprehension, sometimes expressed, 
that foreign travel would weaken our patriotic attachments. 
One sigh for home — home, arose from all hearts. And why, 
from palaces and courts — why, from galleries of the arts, where 
the marble softens into life, and painting sheds an almost living 
presence of beauty around it — why, from the mountain's awful 
brow, and the lovely valleys and lakes touched with the sunset 
hues of old romance — why, from those venerable and touching 
ruins to which our very heart grows — why, from all these scenes, 
were they looking beyond the swellings of the Atlantic wave, to 
a dearer and holier spot of earth — -their own, own country. 
Doubtless, it was, in part, because it is their country ? But it 
was also, as every one's experience will testify, because they 
knew that there was no oppression, no pitful exaction of petty 
tyranny ; because that there, they knew, was no accredited and 
irresistible religious domination ; because that there, they knew, 
they should not meet the odious soldier at every corner, nor 
swarms of imploring beggars, the victims of misrule ; that there, 
no curse causeless did fall, and no blight, worse than plague and 
pestilence, did descend amidst the pure dews of heaven ; be- 
cause, in fine, that there, they knew, was liberty — upon all the 



NEED OF A NATIONAL LITERATURE. §g 

green hills, and amidst all the peaceful valleys — -liberty, the wall 
of fire around the humblest home ; the crown of glory, studded 
with her ever-blazing stars upon the proudest mansion ! 

My friends, upon our own homes that blessing rests, that 
guardian care and glorious crown ; and when we return to those 
homes, and so long as we dwell in them — so long as no op- 
pressor's foot invades their thresholds, let us bless them, and 
hallow them as the homes of freedom ! Let us make them, 
too, the homes of a nobler freedom — of freedom from, vice, 
from evil, from passion— from every corrupting bondage of the 
soul. 



Need of a National Literature,— Whipple. 

In order that America may take its due rank in the common- 
wealth of nations, a literature is needed which shall be the 
exponent of ;ts higher life. We live in times of turbulence and 
change. There is a general dissatisfaction, manifesting itself 
often in rude contests and ruder speech, with the gulf which 
separates principles from actions. Men are struggling to re- 
alize dim ideals of right and truth, and each failure adds to the 
desperate earnestness of their efforts. Beneath all the shrewd- 
ness and selfishness of the American character, there is a 
smouldering enthusiasm which flames out at the first touch of 
fire — sometimes at the hot and hasty words of party, and some- 
times at the bidding of great thoughts and unselfish principles. 
The heart of the nation is easily stirred to'its depths ; but those 
who rouse its fiery impulses into action are often men compound- 
ed of ignorance and wickedness, and wholly unfitted to guide 
the passions which they are able to excite. There is no country 
in the world which has nobler ideas imbodied in more worthless 
shapes. All our factions, fanaticisms, reforms, parties, creeds, 
ridiculous or dangerous though they often appear, are founded 
on some aspiration or reality which deserves a better form and 
expression. There is a mighty power in great speech. If the 
sources of what we call our fooleries and faults were rightly ad- 
dressed, they would echo more majestic and kindling truths. 
We want a poetry which shall speak in clear, loud tones to the 
people ; a poetry which shall make us more in love with our native 
land, by converting its ennobling scenery into the images of 



90 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

lofty thoughts ; which shall give visible form and life to the 
abstract ideas of our written constitutions ; which shall confer 
upon virtue all the strength of principle and all the energy of 
passion ; which shall disentangle freedom from cant and sense- 
less hyperbole, and render it a thing of such loveliness and 
grandeur as to justify all self-sacrifice ; which shall make us 
love man by the new consecrations it sheds on his life and des- 
tiny ; which shall force through the thin partitions of conven- 
tionalism and expediency ; vindicate the majesty of reason : 
give new power to the voice of conscience, and new vitality to 
human affection ; soften and elevate passion ; guide enthusiasm 
in a right direction ; and speak out in the high language of men 
to a nation of men. 



The Eagle,— Percival. 

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing, 

Thy home is high in heaven, 
Where wide the storms their banners fling, 

And the tempest clouds are driven. 
Thy throne is on the mountain top ; 

Thy fields, the boundless air ; 
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 

The skies, thy dwellings are. 

Thou sittest like a thing of light, 

Amid the noontide blaze : 
The midway sun is clear and bright ; 

It cannot dim thy gaze. 
Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, 

O'er the bursting billow, spread, 
Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, 

Like an angel of" the dead. 

Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, 

And the waves are white below, 
And on, with a haste that cannot lag, 

They rush in an endless flow. 
Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 

To lands beyond the sea, 
And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 

Thou hurriest, wild and free. 

Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, 
And thou leavest them all behind ; 

Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, 
Fleet as the tempest wind. 



THE EAGLE. 91 

When the night storm gathers dim and dark, 

With a shrill and boding scream, 
Thou rushest by the foundering bark, 

Quick as a passing dream. 

Lord of the boundless realm of air, 

In thy imperial name, 
The hearts of the bold and ardent dare 

The dangerous path of fame. 
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, 

The Roman legions bore, 
Erom the river of Egypt's cloudy springs 

Their pride, to the polar shore. 

For thee they fought, for thee they fell, 

And their oath was on thee laid ; 
To thee the clarions raised their swell, 

And the dying warrior prayed. 
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, 

The image of pride and power, 
Till the gathered rage of a thousand years 

Burst forth in one awful hour. 

And then a deluge of wrath it came, 

And the nations shook with dread ; 
And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, 

And piled with the mingled dead. 
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood, 

With the low and crouching slave ; 
And together lay, in a shroud of blood, 

The coward and the brave. 

And where was then thy fearless flight ? 

" O'er the dark, mysterious sea, 
To the lands that caught the setting light, 

The cradle of Liberty. 
There, on the silent and lonely shore, 

For ages, I watched alone, 
And the world, in its darkness, asked no more 

Where the glorious bird had flown. 

But then came a bold and hardy few, 

And they breasted the unknown wave ; 
I caught afar the wandering crew ; 

And I knew they were high and brave. 
I wheeled around the welcome bark, 

As it sought the desolate shore, 
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, 

My quivering pinions bore. 

And now that bold and hardy few 

Are a nation wide and strong ; 
And danger and doubt I have led them through, 

And they worship me in song ; 



92 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And over their bright and glancing arms, 

On field, and lake, and sea, 
With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms, 

I guide them to victory." 



The Leper— -N. P. Willis. 

" Room for the leper ! Room !" And, as he came, 

The cry passed on — " Room for the leper ! Room !" 

Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 

Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 

The early risen poor were coming in, 

Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 

Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far. hum 

Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, 

And all that in a city murmur swells — 

Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, 

Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick 

Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase 

The death-like images of the dark away. 

" Room for the leper !" And aside they stood — 

Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all 

Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 

4nd onward through the open gate he came, 

A leper with the ashes on his brow, 

Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 

A covering, stepping painfully and slow, 

And with a difficult utterance, like one 

Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 

Crying, " Unclean ! Unclean !" 

'Twas now the first 
Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, 
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, 
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young, 
And eminently beautiful, and life 
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, 
And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mien 
There was a gracious pride that every eye 
Followed with benisons — and this was he ! . 
With the soft airs of summer, there had come 
A torpor on his frame, which not the speed 
Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 
Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs 
The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 
The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 
Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth 



THE LEPER. 93 

Fettered his limbs like palsy, and his mien, 
With all its loftiness, seemed struck with eld. 
Even his voice was changed — a languid moan 
Taking the place of the clear silver key ; 
And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light 
And very air were steeped in sluggishness. 
He strove with it a while, as manhood will, 
Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 
Slackened within his grasp, and in its poise 
The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. 
Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. 
His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, 
Circled with livid purple, covered bim, 
— And Helen was a leper !" 

Day was breaking, 
When at the altar of the temple stood 
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant 
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof 
Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, 
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 
The echoes of the melancholy strain 
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, 
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head 
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; 
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 
Waiting to hear his doom : 

Depart ! depart, child 
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! 
For he has smote thee with his chastening rod ; 

And to the desert-wild, 
From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
That from thy plague His people may be free. 

Depart ! and come not near 
The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; 

And stay thou not to hear 
Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly 
From all who in the wilderness pass by. 

Wet not thy burning lip 
In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide, 

Nor kneel thee down to dip 
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
By desert well or river's grassy brink ; 

And pass thou not between 
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; 
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 



94 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Where human tracks are seen ; 
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 

And now depart ! and when 
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him 

Who, from the tribes of men, 
Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. 
Depart ! leper ! and forget not God ! 

And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way, 
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die 1 
For God had cursed the leper ! 

It was noon, 
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning lej)rosy, and touched 
The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
Praying that he might be so blest— to die ! 
Footsteps approached, and, with no strength to flee, 
He drew the covering closer on his lip, 
Crying, " Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds 
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name— 
" Helon !" The voice was like the master-tone 
Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet; 
And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
And for *a moment beat beneath the hot 
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
" Helon ! arise !" and he forgot his curse, 
And rose and stood before Him. 

Love and awe 
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye 
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not 
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
No followers at His back, nor in His hand 
Buckler, or sword, or spear — yet in his mien, 
Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, 
A kingly condescension graced His lips, 
The lion would have crouched to in his lair. 
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; 
His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; 
His countenance the impress of a God, 
Touched with the opening innocence of a child ; 






THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 95 

His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky- 
In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn 
Fell to his shoulders ; and His curling beard 
The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 
As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, 
He took a little water in His hand 
And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean !" 
And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow 
The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipped Him , 



The ■ Cricket on the Hearth.— Dickens. 

The Kettle began it'! Don't tell me what Mrs. Peerybingle 
said. I know better. Mrs. Peerybingle may leave it on record 
to the end of time that she couldn't say which of them began 
it ; but I say the Kettle did. I ought to know, I hope ! The 
Kettle began it, full five minutes by the little waxy-faced Dutch 
clock in the corner before the Cricket uttered a chirp. 

As if the clock hadn't finished striking, and the convulsive lit- 
tle Haymaker at the top of it, jerking away right and left with 
a scythe in front of a Moorish Palace, hadn't mowed down half 
an acre of imaginary grass before the Cricket joined in at all ! 

Why, I am not naturally positive. Every one knows that. 
I wouldn't set my own opinion against the opinion of Mrs. 
Peerybingle, unless I were quite sure, on any account whatever. 
Nothing should induce me. But this is a question of fact. 
And the fact is, that the Kettle began it, at least five minutes 
before the Cricket gave any sign of being in existence. Con- 
tradict me : and I'll say ten. 

Let me narrate exactly how it happened. I should have 
proceeded to do so in my very first word, but for this plain 
consideration — if I am to tell a story I must begin at the begin- 
ning ; and how is it possible to begin at the beginning without 
beginning at the Kettle ? 

It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or trial of skill, 
you must understand, between the Kettle and the Cricket. 
And this is what led to it, and bow it came about. 



96 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Mrs. Peerybingle going out into the raw twilight, and clicking 
over the wet stones in a pair of pattens that worked innumerable 
rough impressions of the first proposition in Euclid all about the 
yard — Mrs. Peerybingle filled the Kettle at the water butt. 
Presently returning, less the pattens : and a good deal less, for 
they were tall and Mrs. Peerybingle was but short : she set the 
Kettle on the fire. In doing which she lost her temper, or mis- 
laid it for an instant ; for the water — being uncomfortably cold, 
and in that slippy, slushy sleety sort of state wherein it seems 
to penetrate through every kind of substance, patten rings in- 
cluded — had laid hold of Mrs. Peerybingle's toes, and even 
splashed her legs. And when we rather plume ourselves (with 
reason too) upon our legs, and keep ourselves particularly neat 
in point of stockings, we find this, for the moment, hard to bear. 

Besides, the Kettle was aggravating and obstinate.- It 
wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar ; it wouldn't 
hear of accommodating itself kindly to the knobs of coal ; it 
would lean forward with a drunken air, and dribble, a very idiot 
of a Kettle, on the hearth. It was quarrelsome ; and hissed and 
spluttered morosely at the fire. To sum up all, the lid, resisting 
Mrs. Peerybingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and 
then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better cause, 
dived sideways in — down to the very bottom of the Kettle. And 
the hull of the Royal George has never made half the mon- 
strous resistance to coming out of the water, which the lid of 
that Kettle employed against Mrs. Peerybingle, before she got it 
up again. 

It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even then ; carrying 
its handle with an air of defiance, and cocking its spout pertly 
and mockingly at Mrs. Peerybingle, as if it said, " I wont boil. 
Nothing shall induce me !" 

But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good humor, dusted her 
chubby little hands against each other, and sat down before 
the Kettle : laughing. Meantime, the jolly blaze uprose and 
fell, flashing and gleaming on the little Haymaker at the top of 
the Dutch clock, until one might have thought he stood stock 
still before the Moorish Palace, and nothing was in motion but 
the flame. 

He was on the move, however ; and had his spasms, two to 
the second, all right and regular. But his sufferings when the 
clock was going to strike were frightful to behold ; and when a 
Cuckoo looked out of a trap-door in the Palace, and gave note 
six times, it shook him, each time, like a spectral voice — or like 
a something wiry, plucking at his legs. 



THE CRICKET OR THE HEARTH. 97 

It was not until a violent commotion and a whirring noise 
among the weights and ropes below him had quite subsided, 
that this terrified Haymaker became himself again. Nor was 
he startled without reason ; for these rattling, bony skeletons of 
clocks are very disconcerting in their operations, and I wonder 
very much how any set of men, but most of all how Dutchmen, 
can have, had a liking to invent them. For there is a popular 
belief that Dutchmen love broad cases and much clothing for 
their own lower selves ; and they might know better than to 
leave their clocks so very lank and unprotected, surely. 

Now it was, you observe, that the Kettle began to spend the 
evening. Now it was, that the Kettle, growing mellow and 
musical, began to have irrepressible gurglings in its throat, and 
to indulge in short vocal snorts, which it checked in the bud, 
as if it hadn't quite made up its mind yet, to be good company. 
Now it was, that after two or three such vain attempts to stifle 
its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all reserve, 
and burst into a stream of song so cosy and hilarious, as never 
maudlin nightingale yet formed the least idea of. 

So plain, too ! Bless you, you might have understood it like 
a book — better than some books you and I could name, perhaps. 
With its warm breath gushing forth in a light cloud which mer- 
rily and gracefully ascended a few feet, then hung about the 
chimney-corner as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song 
with that strong energy of cheerfulness, that its iron body 
hummed and stirred upon the fire ; and the lid itself, the recent- 
ly rebellious lid — such is the influence of a bright example — 
performed a sort of jig, and clattered like a deaf and dumb 
young cymbal that had never known the use of its twin brother. 

That this song of the Kettle's was a song of invitation and 
welcome to somebody out of doors ; to somebody at that mo- 
ment coming on, towards the snug small home, and the crisp 
fire, there is no doubt whatever. Mrs. Peerybingle knew it, 
perfectly, as she sat musing, before the hearth. It's a dark 
night, sang the Kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the 
way ; and above, all is mist and darkness, and below, all is mire 
and clay ; and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky 
air ; and I don't know that it is one, for it's nothing but a glare 
of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together 
set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather ; 
and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black ; and 
there's hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track ; 
and the ice it isn't water, and the water isn't free ; and you 
5 



98 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be ; but he's 
coming, coming, coming ! — 

And here, if you like, the Cricket did chime in ! with a chir- 
rup, chirrup, chirrup of such magnitude, by way of chorus ; 
with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size as com- 
pared with the Kettle ; (size ! you couldn't see it !) that if it 
had then and there burst itself like an overcharged gun ; if it 
had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body 
into fifty pieces ; it would have seemed a natural and inevitable 
consequence, for which it had expressly labored. 

The Kettle had had the last of its solo performance. It per- 
severed with undiminished ardor; but the Cricket took first 
fiddle and kept it. Good Heaven, how it chirped ! Its shrill, 
sharp, piercing voice resounded through the house, and seemed 
to twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. There was an in- 
describable little trill and tremble in it, at its loudest, which 
suggested its being carried off its legs, and made to leap again, 
by its own intense enthusiasm. Yet they went very well to- 
gether, the Cricket and the Kettle. The burden of the song 
was still the same ; and louder, louder, louder still, they sang 
it in their emulation. 

The fair little listener ; for fair she was, and young — though 
something of what is called the dumpling shape ; but I don't 
myself object to that — lighted a candle ; glanced at the Hay- 
maker on the top of the clock, who was getting in a pretty 
average crop of minutes ; and looked out of the window, where 
she saw nothing, owing to the darkness, but her own face im- 
aged in the glass. And my opinion is, (and so would yours 
have been,) that she might have looked a long way, and" seen 
nothing half so agreeable. When she came back, and sat down 
in her former seat, the Cricket and the Kettle were still keeping- 
it up with a perfect fury of competition. The Kettle's weak 
side clearly being that he didn't know when he was beat. 

There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, 
chirp ! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum — m — m ! 
Kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, 
chirp, chirp ! Cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum — 
m — m ! Kettle sticking to him in his own way ; no idea of 
giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket fresher than ever. 
Hum, hum, hum — m — m ! Kettle slow and steady. Chirp, 
chirp, chirp ! Cricket going in to finish him. Hum, hum, 
hum — m — m ! Kettle not to be finished. Until at last, they 
got so jumbled together, in the hurry-skurry, helter-skelter of 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 99 

the match, that whether the Kettle chirped and the Cricket 
hummed, cr the Cricket chirped and the Kettle hummed, or 
they both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a 
clearer head than yours or mine to decide with anything like 
certainty. But of this there is no doubt ; that the Kettle and 
the Cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power 
of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent each his fireside 
song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone 
out through the window, and a long way down the lane. And 
this light, bursting on a certain person who, on the instant, ap- 
proached, towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole 
thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, " Welcome home, 
old fellow ! Welcome home, my boy !" 



The Spirit of Poetry.— Longfellow. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells wher'er the gentle south wind blows ; 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, 
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, 
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes 
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook, 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, 
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills, 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds — 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 



7 90 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening goes — 
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 
The distant lake, fountains — and mighty trees, 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 

The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 

My busy fancy oft embodies it, 

As a bright image of the light and beauty 

That dwell in nature — of the heavenly forms 

"We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 

When the sun sets. Within her eye 

The heaven of April, with its changing light, 

And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 

And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 

Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 

It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 

As from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 

Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 

To have it round us — and her silver voice 

Is the rich music of a summer bird, 

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



The Murder.— R. H. Dana. 



Paul drew near the house and watched till the last light was 
put out. — " The innocent and guilty both sleep, all but Paul ! 
Not even the grave will be a resting-place for me ! They hunt 
and drive me to the deed ; and when 'tis done, will snatch the 
abhorred soul to fires and tortures. Why should I rest more ? 
The bosom I slept sweetly on — blissful dreams stealing over me 
— the bosom that to my delighted soul seemed all fond and 
faithful — why, what harbored in it ? Lust and deceit, and sly, 
plotting thoughts, showing love where they most loathed. They 
stung me — ay, in my sleep, crept out upon me and stung me 
— poisoned my very soul — -hot, burning poisons ! Peace, peace, 
your promptings. Ye that put me to this deed — drive me not 
mad ! Am I not about it ?" 

He walked up cautiously to the door, and taking a key from 



THE MURDER. 101 

his pocket unlocked it and went in. There was now a suspense 
of all feeling in him. He entered the parlor. His wife's shawl 
was hanging on the back of a chair ; books in which he had 
read to her were lying on the table, and her work-table near it 
open. His eye passed over them, but there was no emotion. 
He left the room and ascended the stairs with a slow, soft step, 
stealing through his own house cautiously as a thief. He un- 
locked the door of his dressing-room, and passed on without 
noticing any part of it. His hand shook as he partly opened 
his wife's chamber-door. He listened — all was still. He cast 
his eye round, then entered and shut the door after him. He 
walked up by the side of her bed without turning his eyes to- 
ward it, and seated himself down upon it by her. Then it was 
he dared to look on her, as she lay in all her beauty, wrapt in 
a sleep so gentle he could not hear her breathing. She looked 
as if an angel talked with her in her dreams. Her dark, glossy 
hair had fallen over her bright, fair neck and bosom, and the 
moonlight striking through it, pencilled it in beautiful thready 
shadows on her. 

Paul sat for a while with folded arms, looking down on her. 
His eye moved not, and in his dark face was the unchanging 
hardness of stone. His mind appeared elsewhere. There was 
no longer feeling in him. He seemed waiting the order of some 
stern power. The command at last came. He laid his hand 
upon her heart and felt its regular beat; then drew the' knife 
from his bosom. Once more he laid his hand upon her heart ; 
then put the point there. He pressed his eyes close with one 
hand, and the knife sunk to the handle. There was a convul- 
sive start and a groan. He looked on her. A slight flutter 
passed over her frame, and her filmy eyes opened on him once ; 
but he looked as senseless as the body that lay before him. 
The moon shone fully on the corpse, and on him that sat by it ; 
and the silent night went on. By and by, up came the sun in 
the hot flushed sky, and sent his rays over them. Paul moved 
not, nor heeded the change. There was no noise nor motion — 
there were they two together, like two of the dead. 

At last Esther's attendant, entering suddenly, saw the gloomy 
figure of Paul before her. She ran out with a cry of terror, 
and in a moment the room was filled with servants. The old 
man came in trembling and weak ; no tear was wrung from 
him, nor a groan. He bowed his head as saying, It is done. 

The alarm was given, and Frank, with the neighbors, went 
up to the chamber. Though the room was nearly full, not a 
sound was heard. The stillness seemed to spread from Paul 



102 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

and the dead over them all. Frank and some others came near 
him and stood before him ; but he continued looking on his 
wife, as he sat with his crossed hands resting on his thigh ; 
while the one which had done the murder still held the bloody- 
knife. 

ISTo one moved. At last they looked at each other, and one 
of them took Paul by the wrist. He turned his slow, heavy 
eye on them, as if asking who they were, and what they want- 
ed. They instinctively shrunk back, letting go ther hold, and 
his arm fell like a dead man's. 

There was a movement near the door ; and presently Abel 
stood directly before Paul, his hands drawn between his knees, 
his body distorted and writhing as with pain. ... There was 
a gleam and glitter, and something of a laugh and anguish, too, 
in his crazed eye, as it flitted back and forth from Esther to 
Paul. At last Paul glanced upon him. At the sight of Abel 
he gave a shuddering start that shook the room. He looked 
once more on his wife ; his hair rose up, and his eyes became 
wild. " Esther !" he gasped out, tossing up his arms as he 
threw himself forward. He struck the bed and fell to the floor. 
Abel looked and saw his face black with the rush of blood to 
the head ; then giving a leap at which he nearly touched the 
ceiling, with a deafening shriek that rung through the house, 
darted out of the chamber, and, at a spring, reached the outer 
door. 

They felt of Paul.— Life had left him. 

Frank took the father from the room. Preparations were 
hastily made ; and about the close of the day Esther's body, 
followed by a few neighbors and friends, was carried to the 
grave. The grave-yard was not far from the foot of the stony 
ridge. As they drew near it, the sun was just going down, and 
the sky clear, and of a bright warm glow. Presently a figure 
was seen running and darting in crossing movements along the 
top of the ridge, leaping from point to point more like a creature 
of the air than of the earth, for it hardly seemed to touch on 
any thing. It was mad Abel. So swift and shooting were his 
motions, and so quickly did he leap and dance to and fro, that 
it appeared to the dazzled eye as if there were hundreds holding 
their hellish revels in the air ; and now and then a Avild laugh 
reached the mourners, that seemed to come out from the still sky. 
When it was night, the men who had made Paul's grave a lit- 
tle without the consecrated ground, came to the house, and 
taking up the body moved off toward the place in which they 
were to lay it. — No bell tolled for the departed; no one fol- 



NIAGARA. 103 

lowed to mourn over him, as he was laid in the ground away 
from man, or to hear the earth fall on his coffin — that sound 
which makes us feel as if our living bodies, too, were crumbling 
into dust. 

It had been a chilly night ; and while the frost was yet heavy 
on the grass, some of the neighbors went to wonder and moral- 
ize over Paul's grave. There appeared something singular upon 
it. They ventured timidly on, and found lying across it poor 
Abel. He was apparently dead ; and some of the boldest took 
hold of him. He opened his eyes a little and uttered a faint, 
weak cry. They dropped their hold ; his limbs quivered and 
stretched out rigid — then relaxed. His breath came once, 
broken and quick — it was his last. 



Niagara.— &. Margaret Fuller 

We have not been fortunate in weather, for there cannot be 
too much, or too warm sunlight for this scene, and the skies 
have been lowering with cold, unkind winds. My nerves, too 
much braced up by such an atmosphere, do not well bear the 
continual stress of sight and sound. For here there is no 
escape from the weight of a perpetual creation ; all other forms 
and motions come and go, the tide rises and recedes, the wind, 
at its mightiest, moves in gales and gusts ; but here is really an 
incessant, an indefatigable motion. Awake or asleep, there is 
no escape, still this rushing round you and through you. It is 
in this way I have most felt the grandeur — somewhat eternal, 
if not infinite. 

At times a secondary music rises ; the cataract seems to seize 
its own rhythm, and sing it over again, so that the ear and soul 
are roused by a double vibration. This is some effect of the 
wind, causing echoes to the thundering anthem. It is very sub- 
lime, giving the effect of a spiritual repetition through all the 
spheres. . . . 

All great expression, which, on a superficial survey, seems so 
easy as well as so simple, furnishes, after a while, to the faith- 
ful observer, its own standard by which to appreciate it. Daily 
these proportions widened and towered more and more upon 
my sight, and I got, at last, a proper foreground for these sub- 
lime distances. Before coming away, I think I really saw the 



104 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

full wonder of the scene. After a while it so drew me into 
itself as to inspire an undefined dread, such as I never knew be- 
fore, such as may be felt when death is about to usher us into a 
new existence. The perpetual trampling of the waters seized 
my senses. I felt that no other sound, however near, could be 
heard, and would start and look behind me. for a foe. I real- 
ized the identity of that mood of nature in which these waters 
were poured down with such absorbing force, with that in which 
the Indian was shaped on the same soil. For continually upon 
my mind came, unsought and unwelcome, images, such as never 
haunted it before, of naked savages stealing behind me with 
uplifted tomahawks ; again and again this illusion recurred, and 
even after I had thought it over, and tried to shake it off, I 
could not help starting and looking behind me. ... 

The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected ; they 
are so swift that they cease to seem so ; you can think only of 
their beauty. The fountain beyond the Moss Islands, I discov- 
ered for myself, and thought it for some time an accidental 
beauty, which it would not do to leave, lest I might never see 
it again. After I found it permanent, I returned many times to 
watch the play of its crest. In the little waterfall beyond, Na- 
ture seems, as she often does, to have made a study for some 
larger design. She delights in this — a sketch within a sketch, 
a dream within a dream. Wherever we see it, the lines of the 
great buttress in the fragment of stone, the hues of the water- 
fall, copied in the flowers that star its bordering mosses, we are 
delighted ; for all the lineaments become fluent, and we mould 
the scene in congenial thought with its genius 

As I rode up to the neighborhood of the falls, a solemn awe 
imperceptibly stole over me, and the deep sound of the ever- 
hurrying rapids prepared my mind for the lofty emotions to be 
experienced. When I reached the hotel, I felt a strange indif- 
ference about seeing the aspiration of my life's hopes. I 
lounged about the rooms, read the stage bills upon the walls, 
looked over the register, and, finding the name of an acquaint- 
ance, sent to see if he was still there. What this hesitation 
arose from, I know not ; perhaps it was a feeling of my unwor- 
thiness to enter this temple which nature has erected to its 
God. 

At last, slowly and thoughtfully I walked down to the bridge 
leading to Goat Island, and when I stood upon this frail sup- 
port, and saw a quarter of a mile of tumbling, rushing rapids, 
and heard their everlasting roar, my emotions overpowered me, 
a choking sensation rose to my throat, a thrill rushed through 



NIAGARA. 105 

my veins, " my blood ran rippling to my finger's ends." This 
was the climax of the effect which the falls produced upon me — 
neither the American nor the British fall moved me as did 
these rapids. For the magnificence, the sublimity of the latter 
I was prepared by descriptions and by paintings. When I ar- 
rived in sight of them I merely felt, " ah, yes, here is the fall, 
just as I have seen it in picture." When I arrived at the ter- 
rapin bridge, I expected to be overwhelmed, to retire trembling 
from this giddy eminence, and gaze with unlimited wonder and 
awe upon the immense mass rolling on and on, but, somehow or 
other, I thought only of comparing the effect on my mind with 
what I had read and heard. I looked for a short time, and then 
with almost a feeling of disappointment, turned to go to the 
other points of view to see if I was not mistaken in not feel- 
ing any surpassing emotion at this sight. But from the foot 
of Biddle's stairs, and the middle of the river, and from be- 
low the table rock, it was still " barren, barren all." And, 
provoked with my stupidity in feeling most moved in the wrong 
place, I turned away to the hotel, determined to set off for 
Buffalo that afternoon. But the stage did not go, and, after 
nightfall, as there was a splendid moon, I went down to the 
bridge, and leaned over the parapet, where the boiling rapids 
came down in their might. It was grand, and it was also gor- 
geous ; the yellow rays of the moon made the broken waves ap- 
pear like auburn tresses twining around the black rocks. But they 
did not inspire me as before. I felt a foreboding of a mightier 
emotion to rise up and swallow all others, and I passed on to 
the terrapin bridge. Everything was changed, the misty ap- 
parition had taken off its many-colored crown which it had worn 
by day, and a bow of silvery white spanned its summit. The 
moonlight gave a poetical indefiniteness to the distant parts of 
the waters, and while the rapids were glancing in her beams, 
the river below the falls was black as night, save where the re- 
flection of the sky gave it the appearance of a shield of blued 
steel. No gaping tourists loitered, eyeing with their glasses, or 
sketching on cards the hoary locks of the ancient river god. 
All tended to harmonize with the natural grandeur of the 
scene. I gazed long. I saw how here mutability and un- 
changeableness were united. I surveyed the conspiring waters 
rushing against the rocky ledge to overthrow it at one mad 
plunge, till, like toppling ambition, o'erleaping themselves, they 
fall on t'other side, expanding into foam ere they reach the 
deep channel where they creep submissively away. 

Then arose in my breast a genuine admiration, and an humble 
5* 



106 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

adoration of the Being who was the architect of this and of all. 
Happy were the first discoverers of Niagara, those who could 
come unawares upon this view and upon that, whose feelings 
were entirely their own. 



Claims of Literature upon America.— A. H. Everett. 

Independence and liberty, the great political objects of all 
communities, have been secured to us by our glorious ances- 
tors. In these respects, we are only required to preserve and 
transmit unimpaired to our posterity the inheritance which our 
fathers bequeathed to us. To the present and to the following 
generations, is left the easier task of enriching, with arts and 
letters, the proud fabric of our national glory. Our Sparta is 
indeed a noble one. Let us then do our best for it. 

Let me not, however, be understood to intimate that the pur- 
suits of literature or the finer arts of life, have been, at any 
period of our history, foreign to the people of this country. 
The founders of the colonies, the Winthrops, the Smiths, the 
Raleighs, the Penns, the Oglethorpes, were among the most 
accomplished scholars and elegant writers, as well as the loftiest 
and purest spirits of their time. Their successors have con- 
stantly sustained, in this respect, the high standard established 
by the founders. Education and Religion — the two great cares 
of intellectual and civilized men — were always with them the 
foremost objects of attention. The principal statesmen of the 
Revolution were persons of high literary cultivation ; their pub- 
lic documents were declared, by Lord Chatham, to be equal to 
the finest specimens of Greek and Roman wisdom. In every 
generation, our country has contributed its full proportion of 
eminent writers. 

In this respect, then, our fathers did their part ; our friends 
of the present generation are doing theirs, and doing it well. 
But thus far the relative position of England and the United 
States has been such that our proportional contribution to the 
common literature was naturally a small one. England, by her 
great superiority in wealth and population, was of course the 
head -quarters of science and learning. All this is rapidly 



CLAIMS OF IITERATTJRE UPON AMERICA. 107 

changing. You are i Iready touching the point when your 
wealth and population will equal those of England. The supe- 
rior rapidity of your pi ogress will, at no distant period, give you 
the ascendency. It w 11 then belong to your position to take 
the lead in arts and letters, as in policy, and to give the tone to 
the literature of the language. Let it be your care and study 
not to show yourselves unequal to this high calling — to vindi- 
cate the honor of the new world in this generous and friendly 
competition with the old. You will perhaps be told that literary 
pursuits will disqualify you for the active business of life. Heed 
not the idle assertion. Reject it as a mere imagination, incon- 
sistent with principle, unsupported by experience. Point out 
to those who make it, the illustrious characters who have reaped 
in every age the highest honors of studious and active exertion. 
Show them Demosthenes, forging by the light of the midnight 
lamp those thunderbolts of eloquence, which 

" Shook the arsenal and fulmined over Greece — 
To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne. 

Ask then if Cicero would have been hailed with rapture as the 
father of his country, if he had not been its pride and pattern 
in philosophy and letters. Inquire whether Caesar, or Fred- 
erick, or Bonaparte, or Wellington, or Washington, fought the 
worse because they knew how to write their own commentaries. 
Remind them of Franklin, tearing at the same time the lightning 
from heaven, and the sceptre from the hands of the oppressor. 
Do they say to you that study will lead you to skepticism ? 
Recall to their memory the venerable names of Bacon, Milton, 
Newton, and Locke. Would they persuade you that devotion 
to learning will withdraw your steps from the paths of pleasure ? 
Tell them they are mistaken. Tell them that the only true 
pleasures are those which result from the diligent exercise of 
all the faculties of body, and mind, and heart, in pursuit of no- 
ble ends by noble means. Repeat to them the ancient apologue 
of the youthful Hercules, in the pride of strength and beauty, 
giving up his generous soul to the worship of virtue. Tell 
them your choice is also made. Tell them, with the illustrious 
Roman orator, you would rather be in the wrong with Plato, 
than in the right with Epicurus. Tell them that a mother in 
Sparta would have rather seen her son brought home from bat- 
tle a corpse upon his shield, than dishonored by its loss. Tell 
them that your mother is America, your battle the warfare of 
life, your shield the breastplate of Religion. 



108 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

,Mazeppa. —Byron. 

" ' Bring forth the horse !"— the horse was brought ; 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who looked as though the speed of thought 

Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 
Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 

With spur and bridle undefiled — 
'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
They loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — Away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried oh : 
'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foamed — away ! — away ! — 
The last of human sounds which rose, 
As I was darted from my foes, 
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
Which on the wind came roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrenched my head, 
And snapped the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howled back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed. 

Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind, 
All human dwellings left behind ; 

We sped like meteors through the sky, 

When with its crackling sound the night 

Is checkered with the northern light : 

Town — village — none were on our track, 
But a wild plain of far extent, 

And bounded by a forest black ; 

The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
I could have answered with a sigh — 

But fast we fled, away, away — 

And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 

And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 

Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 



MAZEPPA. 109 

But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career ; 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slackened in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

"Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang. 

We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 

And strips the forest in its haste — 

But these were few, and far between, 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
Where'er we flew they followed on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun. 
Oh ! how I wished for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wished the goal already won. 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe. 

The wood was passed ; 'twas more than noon, 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
The earth gave way, the skies rolled round, 
I seemed to sink upon the ground ; 



HO THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Buterr'd, for I was fasti j bound. 
My heart turned sick, my brain grew sore, 
And throbbed awhile, then beat no more : 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 
Which saw no farther ; he who dies 
Can die no more than then I died, 
O'er tortured by that ghastly ride. 

My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 

Life reassumed its lingering hold, 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
Which for a moment would convulse, 
My blood reflowed, though thick and chill ; 

My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
My heart began once more to thrill ; 

My sight returned, though dim ; alas ! 

And thickened, as it were, with glass. 

Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 

There was a gleam too of the sky, 

Studded with stars ; it is no dream ; 

The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 

With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 

The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
Up the repelling bank. 

We gain the top : a boundless plain 

Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
Like precipices in our dreams, 

To stretch beyond the sight. 

Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness naught availed — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had failed, 

Perchance, had they been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolonged their pain. 

Up rose the sun ; the mists were curled 
Back from the solitary world 




MAZEPPA. in 



Which lay around —behind — before ; 
What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil ; 

The very air was mute ; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst, 
The weary brute still staggered on ; 
And still we were — or seemed — alone ! 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
Wide nostrils — never stretched by pain, 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet; 
The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 

He answered, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

Arid reeking limbs immovable, 
His first and last career is done 1 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong: 
They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there, 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round ; 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed, 
Who seemed the patriarch of his breed, 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve asir" 
And backward to the forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. 

They left me there to my despair, 



112 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 
The dying on the dead ! 

The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chained to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death hath need, 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun; 
He flew, and perched, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lacked the strength ; 
But the slight motion of my hand, 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be called a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fixed my dull eyes from afar, 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense, 

And then subsiding back to death, 

And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that crossed my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 



The Guardian Angel.— Lamabtine. 

When, in my childhood's morning, I rested 'neath the shade 
Of the citron or the almond tree, with fruits and blossoms weighed ; 
While the loose curls from my forehead were lifted by the breeze, 
Which like a spirit haunteth each living thing it sees ; 



SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT. 113 

Then in those golden hours, a whisper soft and light 

Stole on my senses, thrilling each pulse to wild delight ; 

'Twas not the perfumed zephyr, the dreamy pipe's low swell, 

The tones of cherished kindred, or the distant village bell ; 

Oh, no, my Guardian Angel, that music in the air 

Was but thy viewless pinions, that hovered round me there! 

"When deeper founts of feeling within my bosom sprung, 
And love, with soft enchantment, its varied cadence rung ; 
When twilight after twilight still found me lingering near 
Yon green and wavy sycamore, to meet with one most dear, 
Whose least caress could liberate the full springs of my breast, 
Whose kiss at every parting gave strange but sweet unrest ; 
Ah ! then the self-same whisper upon my spirit fell : 
Say, could it be his footsteps, Which woke the mystic spell ? 
Oh, no, my Guardian Angel, who watchest over me, 
My heart returned that echo of sympathy from thee ! 

And when, in bliss maternal, I clustered round my hearth 

Those blessings God had lent me, to make my heaven on earth ; 

When at my vine-clad portal I watched their buoyant glee, 

As my children, wild with frolick, shook the ripe figs from the tree ; 

E'en then, though half-defined, that voice with sweetness fraught 

Poured out its notes familiar upon my raptured thought : 

What moved me then ? ah ! was it the bird's song unrepressed ? 

Or the breathings of the baby that slumbered on my breast ? 

Oh, no, my Guardian Angel, I felt that thou wert near, 

To echo back the gladness of my heart -music clear ! 

And now old age hath planted its snow-crown on my head, 

And, sheltered from the bleak winds that through the forest spread, 

I feed the blazing embers that warm my shrinking frame, 

And guard the lambs and children, who scarce can lisp my name: 

Yet in this withered bosom, as in the days of youth, 

The self-same voice consoles me with words of love and truth : 

'Tis not the joys of childhood that haunt me in my sleep, 

Or the lost tones of the dear one whom even now I weep ; 

Oh, no, my Guardian Angel, my tried and faithful friend, 

It is thy heart that twineth with mine till life shall end ! 



Seventh Plague of Egypt.— Anonymous. 

'Twas morn — the rising splendor roll'd 
On marble towers and roofs of gold ; 
Hall, court, and gallery below, 
Were crowded with a living flow ; 
Egyptian, Arab, Nubian there, 
The bearers of the bow and spear ; 



114 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage, 

The slave, the gemm'd and glittering page — 

Helm, turban and tiara, shone 

A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne. 

There came a man — the human tide 
Shrank backward from his stately stride : 
His cheek with storm and time was tanned ; 
A shepherd's staff was in his hand ; 
A shudder of instinctive fear 
Told the dark king what step was near ; 
On through the host the stranger came, 
It parted round his form like flame. 

He stoop'd not at the footstool stone, 

He clasp'd not sandal, kissed not throne ; 

Erect he stood amid the ring. 

His only words — " Be just, O king !" 

On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flush'd high, 

A fire was in his sullen eye ; 

Yet on the Chief of Israel 

No arrow of his thousands fell : 

AH mute and moveless as the grave 

Stood chill'd the satrap and the slave. 

"Thou'rt come," at length the monarcli spoke; 

Haughty and high the words outbroke : 

" Is Israel weary of its lair, 

The forehead peel'd, the shoulder bare ? 

Take back the answer to your band ; 

Go, reap the wind ; go, plough the sand ; 

Go, vilest of the living vile, 

To build the never-ending pile, 

Till, darkest of the nameless dead, 

The vulture on their flesh is fed. 

What better asks the howling slave 

Than the base life our bounty gave V 

Shouted in pride the turban' d peers, 

Upclashed to heaven the golden spears. 

" King ! thou and thine are doom'd ! — Behold !" 

The prophet spoke — the thunder rolPd ! 

Along the pathway of the sun 

Sail'd vapory mountains, wild and dun. 

" i r et there is time," the prophet said — 

He raised his staff — the storm was stay'd : 

" King ! be the word of freedom given : 

What art thou, man, to war with Heaven ?" 

There came no word. — The thunder broke ! 
Like a huge city's final smoke. 
Thick, lurid , stifling, mix'd with flame, 
Through court and hall the vapors came. 
Loose as the stubble in the field, 
Wide flew the men of spear and shield ; 



SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT. H5 

Scattered like foam along the wave, 

Flew the proud pageant, prince and slave : 

Or, in the chains of terror bound, 

Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground. 

" Speak, king ! — the wrath is but begun — 

Still dumb? — then, Heaven, thy will be done !" 

Echoed from earth a hollow roar, 

Like ocean on the midnight shore ; 

A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled, 

The solid ground beneath them reeled ; 

In dust sank roof and battlement; 

Like webs the giant walls were rent; 

Red, broad, before his startled gaze, 

The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. 

Still swelled the plague — the flame grew pale ; 

Burst from the clouds the charge of hail ; 

"With arrowy keenness, iron weight; 

Down poured the ministers of fate ; 

Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed, 

Covered with death the boundless field. 

Still swelled the plague — uprose the blast, 
The avenger, fit to be the last ; 
On ocean, river, forest, vale, 
Thundered at once the mighty gale. 
Before the whirlwind flew the tree, 
Beneatli the whirlwind roared the sea ; 
A thousand ships were on the wave — 
Where are they ? — ask that foaming grave ! 
Down go the hope, the pride of years, 
Down go the myriad mariners ; 
The riches of Earth's richest zone. 
Gone ! like a flash of lightning, gone ! 

And, lo ! that first fierce triumph o'er, 
Swells Ocean on the shrinking shore ; 
Still onward, onward, dark and wide, 
Engulfs the land the furiest tide. 
Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king, 
Thou serpent, reft of fang and sting ; 
Humbled before the prophet's knee, 
He groaned, " Be injured Israel free." 

To heaven the sage upraised his wand ; 
Back rolled the deluge from the land ; 
Back to its caverns sank the gale ; 
Fled from the noon the vapors pale ; 
Broad burned again the joyous sun : 
The hour of wrath and death was done. 



116 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The Minstrel Girl.— Whittier. 

Her lover died. Away from her - 

The ocean-girls his requiem sang, 
And smoothed his dreamless sepulchre 

"Where the tall coral branches sprang. 
And it was told her how he strove 

With death ; but not from selfish fear : 
It was the memory of her love 

Which made existence doubly dear. 
They told her how his fevered sleep 

Revealed the phantom of his brain — 
He thought his love had come to keep 

Her vigils at his couch of pain ; 
And he would speak in his soft tone, 

And stretch his arms to clasp the air, 
And then awaken with a moan, 

And weep that there was nothing there ! 
And when he bowed himself at last 

Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, 
Even as the weary spirit passed, 

Her name was on his marble lips. 
She heard the tale ; she did not weep ; 

It was too strangely sad for tears ; 
And so she kept it for the deep 

Rememberings of after years. 
She poured one lone and plaintive wail 

Eor the loved dead — it was her last — 
Like harp-tones dying, on the gale 

Her minstrelsy of spirit passed : 
And she became an altered one, 

Forgetful of her olden shrine, 
As if her darkened soul had done 

With all beneath the fair sunshine. 



National Self-Respect.— Beman. 

Far be it from me to cherish, in any shape, a spirit of national 
prejudice, or to excite in others a disgusting national vanity. 
But when I reflect upon the part which this country is proba- 
bly to act in the renovation of the world, I rejoice that I am a 
citizen of this great republic. This western continent has, at 
different periods, been the subject of every species of transat- 
lantic abuse. In former days, some of the naturalists of Europe 
told us, that everything here was constructed upon a small 



THE WAR OF 1812. U7 

scale. The frowns of nature were represented as investing the 
whole hemisphere we inhabit. It has been asserted, that the 
eternal storms, which are said to beat upon the brows of our 
mountains, and to roll the tide of desolation at their bases — the 
hurricanes which sweep our vales, and the volcanic fires which 
issue from a thousand flaming craters — the thunder-bolts which 
perpetually descend from heaven, and the earthquakes, whose 
trepidations are felt to the very centre of our globe, have su- 
perinduced a degeneracy through all the productions of nature. 
Men have been frightened into intellectual dwarfs, and the 
beasts of the forest have not attained more than half their 
ordinary growth ! While some of the lines and touches of this 
picture have been blotted out by the reversing hand of time, 
others have been added, which have, in some respects, carried 
the conceit still farther. In later days, and in some instances 
even down to the present period, it has been published and 
republished from the enlightened presses of the Old World, that 
so strong is the tendency to deterioration on this continent, that the 
descendants of European ancestors are far inferior to the original 
stock from which they sprang. But inferior in what ? In 
national spirit and patriotic achievement ? Let the revolution- 
ary conflict — the opening scenes at Boston, and the catastrophe 
at Yorktown — furnish the reply. Let Bennington and Saratoga 
support their respective claims. Inferior in enterprise ? Let 
the sail that whitens every ocean, and the commercial spirit that 
braves every element, and visits every bustling mart, refute the 
unfounded aspersion. Inferior in deeds of zeal and valor for the 
church ? Let our missionaries in the bosom of our own forest, 
in the distant regions of the East, and on the islands of the great 
Pacific, answer the question. Inferior in science, and letters, 
and the arts ? It is true our nation is young ; but we may 
challenge the world to furnish a national maturity which, in 
these respects, will compare with ours. 



The War of 1812 —John C. Calhoun. 

Before I proceed to answer the gentleman particularly, let 
me call the attention of the house to one circumstance; that is, 
that almost the whole of his arguments consisted of an enu- 
meration of evils always incident to war, however just and 



118 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

necessary ; and that, if they have any force, it is calculated to 
produce unqualified submission to every species of insult and 
injury. I do not feel myself bound to answer arguments of the 
above description ; and if I should touch on them, it will be 
only incidentally, and not for the purpose of serious refutation. 
The first argument of the gentleman which I shall notice, is the 
unprepared state of the country. Whatever weight this argu- 
ment might have, in a question of immediate war, it surely has 
little in that of preparation for it. If our country is unprepared, 
let us remedy the evil as soon as possible. Let the gentleman 
submit his plan ; and if a reasonable one, I doubt not it will be 
supported by the house. But, sir, let us admit the fact and 
the whole force of the argument ; I ask whose is the fault ? 
Who has been a member for many years past, and has seen the 
defenseless state of his country even near home, under his own 
eyes, without a single endeavor to remedy so serious an evil ? 
Let him not say, " I have acted in a minority." It is no less 
the duty of the minority than a majority to endeavor to serve 
our country. For that purpose we are sent here, and not for 
that of opposition. We are next told of the expenses of the 
war, and that the people will not pay taxes. Why not ? Is it a 
want of capacity ? What ! with one million tons of shipping ; a 
trade of nearly one hundred million dollars ; manufactures of one 
hundred and fifty million dollars ; and agriculture of thrice that 
amount, shall we be told the country wants the capacity to raise 
and support ten thousand or fifteen thousand additional regulars ? 
ISTo ; it has the ability — that is admitted ; but will it not have 
the disposition ? Is not the course a just and necessary one ? 
Shall we then utter this libel on the nation ? Where will proof 
be found of a fact so disgraceful ? It is said, in the history of 
the country twelve or fifteen years ago. The case is not 
parallel. The ability of the country has greatly increased 
since. The object of that tax was unpopular. But on this, as 
well as my memory and almost infant observation at that time 
serve me, the objection was not to the tax, or its amount, but 
the mode of collection. The eye of the nation was frightened 
by the number of officers ; its love of liberty shocked with the 
multiplicity of regulations. We, in the vile spirit of imitation, 
copied from the most oppressive part of European laws on that 
subject, and imposed on a young and virtuous nation all the 
severe provisions made necessary by corruption and long- 
growing chicane. If taxes should become necessary, I do not 
hesitate to say the people will pay cheerfully. It is for their 
government and their cause, and would be their interest and 



DEATH OF MARMION. 119 

duty to pay. Bat it may be, and I believe was said, that the 
nation will not pay taxes, because the rights violated are not 
worth defending ; or that the defense will cost more than the 
profit. 

Sir, I here enter my solemn protest against this low and 
"calculating avarice" entering this hall of legislation. It is 
only fit for shops and counting-houses, and ought not to dis- 
grace the seat of sovereignty by its squalid and vile appear- 
ance. Whenever it touches sovereign power, the nation is 
ruined. It is too short-sighted to defend itself. It is an un- 
promising spirit, always ready to yield a part to save the 
balance. It is too timid to have in itself the laws of self- 
preservation. It is never safe but under the shield of honor. 
Sir, I only know of one principle to make a nation great, to 
produce in this country not the form but real spirit of union, 
and that is, to protect every citizen in the lawful pursuit of his 
business. He will then feel that he is backed by the govern- 
ment — that its arm is his arms, and will rejoice in its increased 
strength and prosperity. Protection and patriotism are recipro- 
cal. This is the road 'that all great nations have trod. Sir, I 
am not versed in this calculating policy, and will not, there- 
fore, pretend to estimate in dollars and cents the value of 
national independence or national affection. I cannot dare to 
measure in shillings and pence the misery, the stripes, and the 
slavery of our impressed seamen ; nor even to value our ship- 
ping, commercial, and agricultural losses under the orders in 
council and the British system of blockade. I hope I have not 
condemned any prudent estimate of the means of a country, 
before it enters on a war. This is wisdom, the other folly. 



Death of Mar mion.— Scott. 

With that, straight up the hill there rode 

Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
His arms were smeared with blood and sand 
Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
Can that be haughty Marmion ? . . . . 



120 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : 
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue !' — -Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — 

Yet my last thought is England's— fly ! 

Must I bid twice ?— hence, varlets ! fly ! 

Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 

They parted, and alone he lay ; 

Clara drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain rung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmured — " Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire or groom, one cup to bring, 
Of blessed water from the spring, 

To slake my dying thirst ?" 
O, woman ! in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears — 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
Where raged the war, a dark -red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 
Where water, clear as diamond -spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 
Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray 
For the kind soul of Sybil Gray, 

Who built this cross and well. 
She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head — 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 
And strove to stanch the gushing wound ; 



QUEEN MAB. 12 1 

The Monk, with unavailing cares, 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
A lady's voice was in his ear, 
And that the priest he could not hear; 

For that she ever sung, 
"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle tvith groans of the dying F* 

So the notes rung; — 
" Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
O look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

O think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's parting seen, 

But never aught like this." 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, 

And — Stanley ! was the cry ; — 
A light on Marin ion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye: 
With dying hand, above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted " Victory ! — 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on 1" 
Were the last words of Marmion. 



Queen Mab.— Shakspeaek. 

0,'then, I see, queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs: 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; 
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams : 
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash of film : 
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid : 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. 
And in this state she gallops night by night 
6 



12 2 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream, of love : 
On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight ' 
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees : 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : 
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, 
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice : 
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drums in his ear ; at which he starts, and wakes ; 
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. 



Character of Byron,— Macaulay. 

Never had any writer so vast a command of the whole elo- 
quence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair.. That Marah was 
never dry. No art could sweeten, no draughts conld exhaust, 
its perennial waters of bitterness. Never was there such variety 
in monotony as that of Byron. From maniac laughter to pierc- 
ing lamentation, there was not a single note of human anguish 
of which he was not master. Year after year, and month after 
month, he continued to repeat that to be wretched is the des- 
tiny of all ; that to be eminently wretched is the destiny of the 
eminent ; that all the desires by which we are cursed lead alike 
to misery ; — if they are not gratified, to the misery of disappoint- 
ment ; if they are gratified, to the misery of satiety. His prin- 
cipal heroes are men who have arrived by different roads at the 
same goal of despair, who are sick of life, who are at war with 
society, who are supported in their anguish only by an uncon- 
querable pride, resembling that of Prometheus on the rock, or 
of Satan in the burning marl ; who can master their agonies by 
the force of their will, and who, to the last, defy the whole 
power of earth and heaven. He always described himself as a 
man of the same kind with his favorite creations, as a man 
whose heart had been withered, whose capacity for happiness 
was gone, and could not be restored ; but whose invincible spirit 
dared the worst that could befall him here or hereafter. 



CHARACTER OP BYRON. 12 3 

How much of this morbid feeling sprung from an original dis- 
ease of mind, how much from real misfortune, how much from 
the nervousness of dissipation, how much of it was fanciful, how 
much of it was merely affected, it is impossible for us, and 
would probably have been impossible for the most intimate 
friends of Lord Byron, to decide. Whether there ever existed, 
or can ever exist, a person answering to the description which 
he gave of himself, may be doubted : but that he was not such 
a person is beyond all doubt. It is ridiculous to imagine that a 
man whose mind was really imbued with scorn of his fellow- 
creatures, would have published three or four books every year 
in order to tell them so ; or that a man, who could say with 
truth that he neither sought sympathy nor needed it, would 
have admitted all Europe to hear his farewell to his wife, and 
his blessings on his child. In the second canto of Childe Har- 
old, he tells us that he is insensible to fame and obloquy : 

" 111 may such contest now the spirit move, 
Which heeds nor keen reproof nor partial praise." 

Yet we know, on the best evidence, that a day or two before he 
published these lines, he was greatly, indeed childishly, elated 
by the compliments paid to his maiden speech in the House of 
Lords. 

We are far, however, from thinking that his sadness was alto- 
gether feigned. He was naturally a man of great sensibility ; he 
had been ill-educated ; his feelings had been early exposed to 
sharp trials ; he had been crossed in his boyish love ; he had 
been mortified by the failure of his first literary efforts ; he 
was straitened in pecuniary circumstances; he was unfortu- 
nate in his domestic relations ; the public treated him with 
cruel injustice ; his health and spirits suffered from his dissi- 
pated habits of life ; he was, on the whole, an unhappy man. 
He early discovered that, by parading his unhappiness before 
the multitude, he excited an unrivalled interest. The world 
gave him every encouragement to talk about his mental suffer- 
ings. The effect which his first confessions produced, induced 
him to affect much that he did not feel ; and the affectation 
probably reacted on his feelings. How far the character in 
which he exhibited himself was genuine, and how far theatrical, 
would probably have puzzled himself to say. 

There can be no doubt that this remarkable man owed the 
vast influence which he exercised over his contemporaries, at 
least as much to his gloomy egotism as to the real power of his 



124 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

poetry. We never could very clearly understand bow it is that 
egotism, so unpopular in conversation, should be so popular in 
writing ; or how it is that men who affect in their compositions 
qualities and feelings which they have not, impose so much 
more easily on their contemporaries than on posterity. The 
interest which the loves of Petrarch excited in his own time, 
and the pitying fondness with which half Europe looked upon 
Rousseau, are well known. To readers of our time, the love of 
Petrarch seems to have been love of that kind which breaks no 
hearts ; and the sufferings of Rousseau to have deserved laugh- 
ter rather than pity — to have been partly counterfeited, and 
partly the consequences of his own perverseness and vanity. 

What our grandchildren may think of the character of Lord 
Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pretend to guess. 
It is certain, that the interest which he excited during his life is 
without a parallel in literary history. The feeling with which 
young readers of poetry regarded him, can be conceived only by 
those who have experienced it. To. people who are unac- 
quainted with the real calamity, " nothing is so dainty sweet as 
lovely melancholy." This faint image of sorrow has in all ages 
been considered by young gentlemen as an agreeable excite- 
ment. Old gentlemen and middle-aged gentlemen have so 
many real causes of sadness, that they are rarely inclined " to 
be as sad as night only for wantonness." Indeed they want the 
power almost as much as the inclination. We know very few 
persons engaged in active life, who, even if they were to procure 
stools to be melancholy upon, and were to sit down with all the 
premeditation of Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy much 
of what somebody calls the "ecstasy of woe." 

Among that large class of young persons whose reading is 
almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity 
of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of him, 
they treasured up the smallest relics of him ; they learned his 
poems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to look 
like him. Many of them practised at the glass, in the hope of 
catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, 
which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their 
neckcloths in imitation of their great leader. For some years, 
the Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mysterious, un- 
happy, Lara-like peer. The number of hopeful undergraduates 
and medical students who became things of dark imaginings, on 
whom the freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose 
passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the 



THE DYING GLADIATOR. 125 

relief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. This was not 
the worst. There was created in the minds of many of these 
enthusiasts, a pernicious and absurd association between intel- 
lectual power and moral depravity. From the poetry of Lord 
Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misan- 
thropy and voluptuousness: a system in which the two great 
commandments were, to hate your neighbor, and to love your 
neighbor's wife.. 

This affectation has passed away ; and a few more years will 
destroy whatever yet remains of that magical potency which 
once belonged to the name of Byron. To us he is still a man, 
young, noble, and unhappy. To our children he will be merely 
a writer ; and their impartial judgment will appoint his place 
among writers, without regard to his rank or to his private his- 
tory. That his poetry will undergo a sev^ft sifting ; that much 
of what has been admired by his contemporaries will be rejected 
as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have as little doubt, 
that, after the closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that 
can only perish with the English language. 



The Dying Gladiator—Brno*. 



I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 



He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lostaior prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 



126 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Mont Blanc from the Col de Balme.—Gc. B. Cheever. 

The Col de Balme is about seven thousand feet high, and 
lying as it does across the vale of Chamouny at theend toward 
Martigny and the valley of the Rhone, through which runs the 
grand route of the Simplon from Switzerland to Italy, you have 
from it one of the most perfect of all views both of Mont Blanc 
and the vale of Chamouny, with all the other mountain ridges 
"on every side. You have, as it were, an observatory erected 
for you, seven thousand feet high, to look at a mountain of 
sixteen thousand feet 

Till we arrived within a quarter of an hour of the summit, 
the atmosphere wai clear, and Mont Blanc rose to the view 
with a sublimity wwch it seemed at every step could scarcely 
be rivalled, and which yet at every step was increasing. The 
path is a winding ascent, practicable only for mules or on foot. 
A northeast wind, in this last quarter of an hour, was driving 
the immensity of mist from the other side of the mountain over 
the summit, enveloping all creation in a thick frosty fog, so that 
when we got to the solitary house, we were surrounded by an 
ocean of cold gray cloud, that left neither mountain nor the sun 
itself distinguishable. And such, thought we, is the end of all 
our morning's starvation, perils, and labors ; not to see an inch 
before us ; all this mighty prospect, for which alone one might 
worthily cross the Atlantic, hidden from us, and quite shut 
out ! We could have wept, perhaps, if we had not been too 
cold and too hungry. Our host burned up the remainder of 
his year's supply of wood to get us a fire, and then most hos- 
pitably provided us with a breakfast of roast potatoes, whereby 
all immediate danger of famishing was deferred to a considerable 
distance. But our bitter disappointment in the fog was hard to 
be borne, and we sat brooding and mourning over the gloomy 
prospect for the day, and wondering what we had best do with 
ourselves, when suddenly, on turning toward the window, Mont 
Blank was flashing in the sunshine. 

Such an instantaneous and extraordinary revelation of splen- 
dor we never dreamed of. The clouds had vanished, we could 
not tell where, and the whole illimitable vast of glory in this, 
the heart of Switzerland's Alpine grandeurs, was disclosed ; 
the snowy Monarch of Mountains, the huge glaciers, the jagged 
granite peaks, needles, and rough enormous crags and ridges 
congregated and shooting up in every direction, with the long, 
beautiful vale of Chamouny visible from end to end, far beneath, 



MONT BLANC FROM THE COL DE BALME. 127 

as still and shining as a picture ! Just over the longitudinal 
ridge of mountains on one side was the moon in an infinite 
depth of ether ; it seemed as if we could touch it ; and on the 
other the sun was exulting as a bridegroom coming out of his 
chamber. The clouds still sweeping past us, now concealing, 
now partially veiling, and now revealing the view, added to its 
power by such sudden alternations. 

Far down the vale floated in mid air beneath us a few fleeces 
of cloud, below and beyond which lay the valley with its vil- 
lages, meadows, and winding paths, and the river running 
through it like a silver thread. Shortly the mists congregated 
away beyond this scene, rolling masses upon masses, penetrated 
and turned into fleecy silver by the sunlight, the whole body of 
them gradually retreating over the southwestern end and bar- 
rier of the valley. In our position we now saw the different 
gorges in the chain of Mont Blanc lengthwise, Charmontiere, 
Du Bois, and the Glacier du Bosson protruding its whole enor?ne 
from the valley. The Grand Mulet, with the vast snow-depths 
and crevasses of Mont Blanc were revealed to us. That sublime 
summit was now for the first time seen in its solitary superiority, 
at first appearing round and smooth, white and glittering with 
perpetual snow ; but as the sun in his higher path cast shadows 
from summit to summit, and revealed ledges and chasms, we 
could see the smoothness broken. Mont Blanc is on the right 
of the valley, looking up from the Col de Balme ; the left range 
being much lower, though the summit of the Buet is nearly ten 
thousand feet in height. Now on the Col de Balme we are 
midway in these sublime views, on an elevation of seven thou- 
sand feet, without an intervening barrier of any kind to interrupt 
our sight. 

On the Col itself we are between two loftier heights, both of 
which I ascended, one of them being a ridge so sharp and steep, 
that though I got up without much danger, yet on turning to 
look about me and come down, it was absolutely frightful. A 
step either side would have sent me sheer down a thousand 
feet; and the crags by which I had mounted appeared so' 
loosely perched, as if I could shake and tumble them from 
their places by my hand. The view in every direction seemed 
infinitely extended, chain behind chain, ridge after ridge> in 
almost endless succession. 

But the hour of most intense splendor in this day of glory 
was the rising of the clouds in Chamouny, as we could discern 
them like stripes of amber floating in an azure sea. They 
rested upon and floated over the successive glacier gorges of 



128 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the mountain range on either hand, like so many islands of 
the blest, anchored in mid-heaven below us ; or like so many 
radiant files of the white-robed heavenly host floating trans- 
versely across the valley. This extended through its whole 
length, and it was a most singular phenomenon ; for through 
these ridges of cloud we could look as through a telescope 
down into the vale and along to its farther end ; but the in- 
tensity of the light flashing from the snows of the mountains 
and reflected in these fleecy radiances, almost as so .many 
secondary suns, hung in the clear atmosphere, was well-nigh 
blinding. 

The scene seemed to me a fit symbol of celestial glories ; 
and I thought if a vision of such intense splendor could be 
arrayed by the divine power out of mere earth, air, and water, 
and made to assume such beauty indescribable at a breath of 
the wind, a movement of the sun, a slight change in the ele- 
ments, what mind could even dimly and distantly form to itself 
a conception of the splendors of the world of heavenly glory ! 



The Hurricane.— Audubon. 

"Various portions of our country have at different periods 
suffered severely from the influence of violent storms of wind, 
some of which have been known to traverse nearly the whole 
extent of the United States, and to leave such deep impressions 
in their wake as will not easily be forgotten. Having witnessed 
one of these awful phenomena, in all its grandeur, I will attempt 
to describe it. The recollection of that astonishing revolution 
of the ethereal element even now brings with it so disagreeable 
a sensation, that I feel as if about to be affected by a sudden 
stoppage of the circulation of my blood. 

I had left the village of Shawaney, situated on the banks of 
the Ohio, on my return from Henderson, which is also situated 
on the banks of the same beautiful stream. The weather was 
pleasant, and I thought not warmer than usual at that season. 
My horse was jogging quietly along, and my thoughts were, 
for once at least in the course of my life, entirely engaged in 
commercial speculations. I had forded Highland Creek, and 
was on the eve of entering a tract of bottom land or valley 
that lay between it and Canoe Creek, when on a sudden I re- 






THE HURRICANE. 129 

marked a great difference in the aspect of the heavens. A hazy- 
thickness had overspread the country, and I for some time ex- 
pected an earthquake, but my horse exhibited no propensity to 
stop and prepare for such an occurrence. I had nearly arrived 
at the verge of the valley, when I thought fit to stop near a 
brook,- and dismounted to quench the thirst which had come 
upon me. 

I was leaning on my knees, with my lips about to touch the 
water, when, from my proximity to the earth, I heard a distant 
murmuring sound of an extraordinary nature. I drank, how- 
ever, and as I rose on my feet, looked toward the southwest, 
where I observed a yellowish, oval spot, the appearance of 
which was quite new to me. ' Little time was left to me for 
consideration, as the next moment a smart breeze began to agi- 
tate the taller trees. It increased to an unexpected height, and 
already the smaller branches and twigs' were seen falling in a 
slanting direction towards the ground. Two minutes had 
scarcely elapsed, when the whole forest before me was in fear- 
ful motion. Here and there, where one tree pressed against 
another, a creaking noise was produced, similar to that occa- 
sioned by the violent gusts which sometimes sweep over the 
country. Turning instinctively towards the direction from 
which the wind blew, I saw, to my great astonishment, that the 
noblest trees of the forest bent their lofty heads for a while, and 
unable to stand against the blast, were falling into pieces. 
First, the branches were broken off with a crackling noise ; then 
went the upper part of the massy trunks ; and in many places 
whole trees of gigantic size were falling entire to the ground. 
So rapid was the progress of the storm, that before I could 
think of taking measures to insure my safety, the hurricane was 
passing opposite the place where I stood. Never can I forget 
the scene which at that moment presented itself. The tops of 
the trees were seen moving in the strangest manner, in the cen- 
tral current of the tempest, which carried along with it a min- 
gled mass of twigs and foliage, that completely obscured the 
view. Some of the largest trees were seen bending and writh- 
ing under the gale ; others suddenly snapped across ; and many, 
after a momentary resistance, fell uprooted to the earth. The 
mass of branches, twigs, foliage, and dust that moved through 
the air, was whirled onwards like a cloud of feathers, and on 
passing, disclosed a wide space filled with fallen trees, naked 
stumps, and heaps of shapeless ruins, which marked the path 
of the tempest. This space was about a fourth of a mile in 
breadth, and to my imagination resembled the dried-up bed of 
6* 



130 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the Mississippi, with its thousands of planters and sawyers, 
strewed in the sand, and inclined in various degrees. The hor- 
rible noise resembled that of the great cataracts of Niagara, and 
as it howled along in the track of the desolating tempest, pro- 
duced a feeling in my mind which it is impossible to describe. 

The principal force of the hurricane was now over, although 
millions of twigs and small branches, that had been brought 
from a great distance, were seen following the blast, as if drawn 
onwards by some mysterious power. They even floated in the 
air for some hours after, as if supported by the thick mass of 
dust that rose high above the ground. The sky had now a 
greenish lurid hue, and an extremely disagreeable sulphureous 
odor was diffused in the atmosphere. I waited in amazement, 
having sustained no material injury, until nature at length re- 
sumed her wonted aspect. For some moments, I felt undeter- 
mined whether I should return to Morgantown, or attempt to 
force my way through the wrecks of the tempest. My business, 
however, being of an urgent nature, I ventured into the path 
of the storm, and after encountering innumerable difficulties, 
succeeded in crossing it. I was obliged to lead my horse by 
the bridle to enable him to leap over the fallen trees, whilst I 
scrambled over or under them in the best way I could, at times 
so hemmed in by the broken tops and tangled branches, as al- 
most to become desperate. On arriving at my house, I gave 
an account of what I had seen, when, to my surprise, I was told 
that there had been very little wind in the neighborhood, al- 
though in the streets and gardens many branches and twigs 
had fallen in a manner which excited great surprise. 

Many wondrous accounts of the devastating effect of this 
hurricane were circulated in the country, after its occurrence. 
Some log-houses, we were told, had been overturned, and their 
inmates destroyed. One person informed me that a wire-sifter 
had been conveyed by the gust to a distance of many miles. 
Another had found a cow lodged in the fork of a large half- 
broken tree. But, as I am disposed to relate only what I have 
myself seen, I will not lead you into the region of romance, but 
shall content myself by saying that much damage was done by 
this awful visitation. The valley is yet a desolate place, over- 
grown with briars and bushes, thickly entangled amidst the tops 
and trunks of the fallen trees, and is the resort of ravenous ani- 
mals, to which they betake themselves when pursued by man, 
or after they have committed their depredations on the farms 
of the surrounding district. I have crossed the path of the 
storm, at a distance of a hundred miles from the spot where I 



ARABY'S DAUGHTER. 131 

witnessed its fury, and, again, four hundred miles farther off, in 
the State of Ohio. Lastly, I observed traces of its ravages on 
the summits of the mountains connected with the Great Pine 
Forest of Pennsylvania, three hundred miles beyond the place 
last mentioned. In all these different parts, it appeared to me 
not to have exceeded a quarter of a mile in breadth. 



Araby's Daughter.— Moore. 

Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea :) 
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, 

More pure hi its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, 

Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, 
And hushed all its music and withered its frame ! 

But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is burning, 
And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses 
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, 

Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, 
She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee — 
. Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, 
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
. With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; 
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber 
W e , Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 



132 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest sterns at thy head ; 

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until pity's sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, 

They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, 
They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. 



A Picture.— Shelley. 

How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh 

Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, 

Were discord to the speaking quietude 

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, 

Studded with stars unutterably bright, 

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, 

Seems like a canopy which love has spread 

Above the sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 

Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; 

Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 

So stainless, that their white and glittering spires 

Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep, 

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 

So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it 

A metaphor of peace ; all form a scene 

Where musing solitude might love to lift 

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; 

Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, 

So cold, so bright, so still ! The orb of day, 

In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field 

Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath 

Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds of eve 

Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; 

And vesper's image on the western main 

Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : 

Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, 

Roll o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar 

Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; 

Tempest unfolds its pinions o'er the gloom 

That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, 

With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ; 

The torn deep yawns — the vessel finds a grave 

Beneath its jagged gulf. 

Ah ! whence yon glare 
That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 133 

In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow 
Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round ! 
Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals 
In countless echoes through the mountains ring, 
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar, 
Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb ; 
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, 
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
Inebriate with rage ! — Loud and more loud 
The discord grows ; till pale death shuts the scene, 
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men 
Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, 
In proud and vigorous health — of all the hearts 
That beat with anxious life at sunset there — 
How few survive, how few are beating now ! 
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; 
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay 
Wrapt round its struggling powers. 

The gray morn 
Dawns on the mournful scene ; the sulphurous smoke 
Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 
And the bright beams of frosty morning dance 
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood, 
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, 
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path 
Of the outsallying victors : far behind 
Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day 
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 



The WMp-pOOr-wilL— G. P. Morris. 

Why dost thou come at set of sun 
Those pensive words to say ? 

Why whip-poor-will ? — what has he done? 
And who is Will I pray ? 

Why come from yon leaf-shaded hill, 

A suppliant at my door ? 
Why ask of me to whip-poor-will ? 

And is Will really poor ? 



134 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

If poverty 's his crime, let mirth 
From out his heart be driven ; 

That is the deadliest sin on earth, 
And never is forgiven. 

Art Will himself? It must be so, 

I learn it from thy moan ; 
For none can feel another's woe 

As deeply as his own. 

Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat 

While other birds repose ? 
What means thy melancholy note ? 

The mystery disclose. 

Still " Whip-poor-will, " — Art thou a sprite 
From unknown regions sent, 

To wander in the gloom of night 
And ask for punishment ? 

Is thine a conscience sore beset 
With guilt — or, what is worse, 

Hast thou to meet writs, duns and debt, 
No money in thy purse ? 

If this be thy hard fate indeed, 
Ah well may'st thou repine ! 

The sympathy I give I need, 
The poet's doom is thine. 

Art thou a lover, Will ? — hast prov'd 

The fairest can deceive ? 
Thine is the lot of all who've lov'd 

Since Adam wedded Eve. 

Hast trusted in a friend, and seen 

No friend was he in need ? 
A common error — men still lean 

Upon as frail a reed. 

Hast thou in seeking wealth and fame 

A crown of brambles won ? 
O'er all the earth, 'tis just the same 

With every mother's son. 

Hast found the world a Babel wide 
Where man to Mammon stoops ; 

Where nourish arrogance and pride, 
While modest merit droops ? 

What none of these ? Then whence thy pain- 
To guess it who's the skill ? 

Pray have the kindness to explain 
Why I should whip-poor-will ! 



THE PILGRIMS. 13; 

Dost merely ask thy just desert ? 

What not another word ? 
Back to the woods again, unhurt, 

I would not harm thee, bird ! 

But treat thee kindly — for my nerves, 

Like thine, have penance done ; 
Treat every man as he deserves, 

Who shall 'scape whipping ? — None ! 

Farewell, poor Will — not valueless 

This lesson by thee given ; 
Keep thine own counsel, and confess 

Thyself alone to Heaven ! 



The Pilgrims,— Mrs. Sigourney. 

How slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! 
Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
A toiling atom — then from wave to wave 
Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed — or reels, 
Half wrecked, through gulfs pi-ofound. 

Moons wax and wane, 
But still that lonely traveller treads the deep. 
I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers 
With, such a tardy movement, that it seems 
Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, 
And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
They land ! — they land ! — not like the Genoese, 
With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye 
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
From their long prison — hardy forms, that brave 
The world's unkindness — men of hoary hair, 
And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave, 
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. 
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round, 
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth, 
And savage men, who through the thickets peer 
With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps 
To this drear desert ? Ask of him who left 
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds, 
Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth, 
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed 
Should be as Ocean's sands. 

But yon lone bark 
Hath spread her parting sail. 

They crowd the strand, 
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the woe 



136 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link 
Binding to man, and habitable earth, 
Is severed ? Can ye tell what pangs were there, 
What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart, ; 
"What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, 
Their distant, dear ones ? 

Long, with straining eye, 
They watch the lessening speck. Heard ye no shriek 
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness 
Sank down into their bosoms ? No ! they turn 
Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! — 
Pray — and the ills that haunt this transient life 
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 
A loftiness — to face a world in arms — 
To strip the pomp from sceptres — and to lay 
Upon the sacred altar the warm blood 
Of slain affections, when they rise between 
The soul and Cod. 

And can ye deem it strange 
That from their planting such a branch should bloom 
As nations envy ? Would a germ, embalmed 
With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root 
Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew 
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again ? 
Hid by its veil of waters from the hand 
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth 
In giant strength. 

Its early clusters, crushed 
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host 

A draught of deadly wine. O, ye who boast 

In your free veins the blood of sires like these, 
Lose not their lineaments ! Should Mammon cling 
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
That bloated luxury whieh eats the core 
From manly virtue, or the tempting world 
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
Turn ye to Plymouth's beach — and on that rock 
Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow 
They breathed to Cod. 






The Settlement of Plymouth Webster. 

Our fathers came hither to a land from which they were 
never to return. Hither they had brought, and here they were 
to fix their hopes, their attachments, and their objects. Some 
natural tears they shed, as they left the pleasant abodes 



THE SETTLEMENT OF PLYMOUTH. 137 

of their fathers, and some emotions they suppressed when the 
white cliffs of their native country, now seen for the last time, 
grew dim to their sight. They were acting however upon a 
resolution not to be changed. With whatever stifled regrets, 
with whatever occasional hesitation, with whatever appalling 
apprehensions, which must sometimes arise with force to shake 
the firmest purpose, they had yet committed themselves to 
heaven and the elements ; and a thousand leagues of water 
soon interposed to separate them for ever from the region which 
gave them birth. A new existence awaited them here ; and 
when they saw these shores, rough, cold, barbarous, and bar- 
ren as then they were, they beheld their country. That mixed 
and strong feeling, which we call love of country, and which is 
in general never extinguished in the heart of man, grasped and 
embraced its proper object here. Whatever constitutes country, 
except the earth and the sun, all the moral causes of affection 
and attachment which operate upon the heart, they had brought 
with them to their new abode. Here were now their families 
and friends, their homes, and their property. Before they 
reached the shore, they had established the elements of a social 
system, and at a much earlier period had settled their forms of 
religious worship. At the moment of their landing, therefore, 
they possessed institutions of government, and institutions of 
religion ; and friends and families, and social and religious insti- 
tutions, established by consent, founded on choice and prefer- 
ence, how nearly do these fill up our whole idea of country ! 
The morning that beamed on the first night of their repose saw 
the Pilgrims already established in their country. There were 
political institutions, and civil liberty, and religious worship. 
Poetry has fancied nothing in the wanderings of heroes so dis- 
tinct and characteristic. Here was man indeed unprotected, 
and unprovided for, on the shore of a rude and fearful wilder- 
ness ; but it was politic, intelligent, and educated man. Every 
thing was civilized but the physical world. Institutions con- 
taining in substance all that ages had done for human govern- 
ment were established in a forest. Cultivated mind was to act 
on uncultivated nature ; and, more than all, a government and 
a country were to commence with the very first foundations laid 
under the divine light of the Christian religion. Happy auspi- 
ces of a happy futurity ! Who would wish that his country's 
existence had otherwise begun ? Who would desire the power 
of going back to the ages of fable ? - Who would wish for an 
origin obscured in the darkness of antiquity ? Who would wish 



138 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

for other emblazoning of his country's heraldry, or other orna- 
ments of her genealogy, than to be able to say that her first 
existence was with intelligence ; her first breath the inspirations 
of liberty ; her first principle the truth of divine religion ? 



The Pilgrims of the Mayflower.— Rowan Everett. 

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, 
the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects 
of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold 
it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the 
tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, 
and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the 
sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now scantily sup- 
plied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their 
ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; 
and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high 
and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls through 
the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their 
base ; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, 
as it were, madly from billow to billow ; the oceau -breaks, and 
settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats 
with deadening weight against the staggered vessel. I see 
them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate 
undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, 
on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth ; weak and weary from the 
voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the 
charity of their shipmaster for a draught of beer on board, 
drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without 
means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut now the volume of 
history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, 
what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, 
man of military science, in how many months were they all 
swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the 
early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how lono* 
did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and 
treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student 
of history, compare for. me the baffled projects, the deserted 
settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find 



DUTIES OF AMERICAN CITIZEN'S. 139 

the parallel of this ! "Was it the winter's storm, beating upon 
the houseless heads of women and children ; was it hard labor 
and spare meals ; was it disease ; was it the tomahawk ; was it 
the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a 
broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of 
the loved and left, beyond the sea ; was it some, or all of these 
united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy 
fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not 
all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it pos- 
sible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy — not 
so much of admiration as of pity — there has gone forth a pro- 
gress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, 
a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ? 



Duties of American Citizens.— -Levi Woodbury. 

It behooves us to look our perils and difficulties, such as they 
are, in the face. Then, with the exercise of candor, calmness, 
and fortitude, being able to comprehend fully their character 
and extent, let us profit by the teachings of almost every page 
in our annals, that any defects, under our existing system, have 
resulted more from the manner of administering it, than from its 
substance or form. 

We less need new laws, new institutions, or new powers, than 
we need, on all occasions, at all times, and in all places, the re- 
quisite intelligence concerning the true spirit of our present 
ones ; the high moral courage, under every hazard, and against 
every offender, to execute with fidelity the authority already 
possessed ; and the manly independence to abandon all supine-* 
ness, irresolution, vacillation, and time-serving pusillanimity, 
and enforce our present mild system with that uniformity and 
steady vigor throughout, which alone can supply the place of 
the greater severity of less free institutions. 

To arm and encourage us in renewed efforts to accomplish 
everything on this subject which is desirable, our history con- 
stantly points her finger to a most efficient resource, and indeed 
to the only elixir, to secure a long life to any popular govern- 
ment, in increased attention to useful education and sound 
morals, with the wise description of equal measures and just 



140 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

practices they inculcate on every leaf of recorded time. Before 
their alliance, the spirit of misrule will always, in time, stand 
rebuked, and those who worship at the shrine of unhallowed 
ambition, must quail. 

Storms, in the political atmosphere, may occasionally happen 
by the encroachments of usurpers, the corruption or intrigues 
of demagogues, or in the expiring agonies of faction, or by the 
sudden fury of popular frenzy ; but, with the restraints and 
salutary influences of the allies before described, these storms 
will purify as healthfully as they often do in the physical world, 
and cause the tree of liberty, instead of falling, to strike its roots 
deeper. In this struggle, the enlightened and moral possess 
also a power, auxiliary and strong, in the spirit of the age, 
which is not only with them, but onward, in everything to 
ameliorate or improve. 

When the struggle assumes the form of a contest with power, 
in all its subtlety, or with undermining and corrupting wealth, 
as it sometimes may, rather than with turbulence, sedition, or 
open aggression by the needy and desperate, it will be indispen- 
sable to employ still greater diligence ; to cherish earnestness 
of purpose, resoluteness in conduct ; to apply hard and constant 
blows to real abuses, rather than milk-and-water remedies, and 
encourage not only bold, free, and original thinking, but deter- 
mined action. 

In such a cause, our fathers were men whose hearts were not 
accustomed to fail them, through fear, however formidable the 
obstacles. We are not, it is trusted, such degenerate descend- 
ants, as to prove recreant, and fail to defend, with gallantry and 
firmness as unflinching, all which we have either derived from 
them, or since added to the rich inheritance. 

At such a crisis, therefore, and in such a cause, yielding to 
neither consternation nor despair, may we not all profit by the 
vehement exhortations of Cicero to Atticus : "If you are asleep, 
awake; if you are standing, move; if you are moving, run; if 
you are running, fly ?" 

All these considerations warn us — the grave -stones of almost 
every former republic warn us — that a high standard of moral 
rectitude, as well as of intelligence, is quite as indispensable to 
communities, in their public doings, as to individuals, if they 
would escape from either degeneracy or disgrace. 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 141 

The Dream of Eugene Aram.—T. Hood.* 

'Twas in the prime of summer time, 

An evening calm and cool, 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school : 
There were some that ran and some that leapt, 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 

And souls untouched by sin ; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 

And shouted as they ran, 
Turning to mirth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man ! 

His hat was off, his vest was apart, 

To cafch heavens blessed breeze ; 
For a burning thought was in his brow, 

And his bosom ill at ease ; 
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 

The book between his knees ! 

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide : 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strain'd the dusky covers close, 

And fix'd the brazen hasp : 
" God, could I so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp !" 

Then leaping on his feet upright, x 

Some moody turns he took — 

* The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where 
the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher, subsequent to his crime. The 
admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys ; and that 
he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat of the spirit 
which is attributed to him in this poem. 



142 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Now up the mead, then down the mead, 

And past a shady nook — 
And, lo ! he saw a little boy 

That pored upon a book ! 

" My gentle lad, what is't you read — 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable ?" 
The young boy gave an upward glance — 

" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 

The usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain- 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 
And talked with him of Cain. 

He told how murderers walked the earth, 
Beneath the curse of Cain — 

"With crimson clouds before their eyes, 
And flames about their brain : 

For blood has left upon their souls 
Its everlasting stain ! 

" And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme — 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought 
A murder in a dream ! 

" One that had never done me wrong— 

A feeble man, and old ; 
I led him to a lonely field, 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 
A nd one with a heavy stone, 

One hurried gash with a hasty knife — 
And then the deed was done : 

There was nothing lying at my foot, 
But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more, 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill ! 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 143 

" And, lo ! the universal air 

Seemed lit with ghastly flame — 
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes, 

"Were looking down in blame: 
I took the dead man by the hand, 

And called upon his name ! 

"0 God, it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain ! 
But when I touched the lifeless clay, 

The blood gushed out amain ! 
For every clot, a burning spot, 

Was scorching in my brain ! 

" And now from forth the frowning sky, 
, From the heaven's topmost height, 
I heard a voice — the awful voice 

Of the blood-avenging sprite : — 
' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead 

And hide it from my sight !' 

K I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream — 
A sluggish water, black as ink, 

The depth was so extreme. 
My gentle boy, remember this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge 

And vanished in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands 

And washed my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school ! 

" heaven, to think of their white souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer, 

Nor join in evening hymn: 
Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 

'Mid holy cherubim ! 

" And peace went with them one and all, 

And each cairn pillow spread : 
But guilt was my grim chamberlain 

That lighted me to bed, 
And drew my midnight curtains round, 

With fingers bloody red ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 
From weary chime to chime, 



144 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With one besetting horrid hint, 
That racked me all the time — 

A mighty yearning, like the first 
Fierce impulse unto crime ! 

" One stern, tyrannic thought, that made 
All other thoughts its slave ; 

Stronger and stronger every pulse 
Did that temptation crave — 

Still urging me to go and see 
The dead man in his grave ! 

" Heavily I rose up — as soon 
As light was in the sky — 
And sought the black accursed pool 
With a wild misgiving eye ; 
y And I saw the dead in the river bed, 
For the faithless stream was dry. 

" Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
The dew-drop from its wing : 

But I never marked its morning flight, 
I never heard it sing : 

For I was stooping once again 
Under the horrid thing. 

" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

I took him up and ran — 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began : 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 

I hid the murdered man ! 

"And all that day I read in school, 
But my thought was other where ; 

As soon as the mid-day task was done, 
In secret I was there : 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was bare ! 

" Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep ; 
Or land or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep ! 

" God, that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake ! 
Again — again, with a dizzy brain, 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 






SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 145 

" And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul — 

It stands before me now !" — 
The fearful boy looked up, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow ! 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, 

Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walked between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 



Siege of Torquilstone, — Scorr. 

The noise within the castle, occasioned by the defensive pre- 
parations, which had been considerable for some time, now 
increased into tenfold bustle and clamor. The heavy yet hasty 
step of the men-at-arms traversed the battlements, or resounded 
on the narrow and winding passages and stairs which led to the 
various bartisans and points of defense. The voices of the 
knights were heard, animating their followers or directing means 
of defense, while their commands were often drowned in the 
clashing of armor, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they 
addressed. Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more 
terrible from the awful event which they presaged, there was 
a sublimity mixed with them which Rebecca's high-toned mind 
could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye kindled, 
although the blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a 
strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime 
as she repeated, half whispering to herself, half speaking to her 
companion, the sacred text — " The quiver rattleth — the glitter- 
ing spear and the shield — the noise of the captains and the 
shouting !" 

But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, 
glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent 
desire to mingle in the affray, of which these sounds were the 
introduction. " If I could but drag myself," he said, " to yon- 
der window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go 
— If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-axe to strike were 
it but a single blow for our deliverance ! It is in vain — it is in 
vain — I am alike nerveless and weaponless !" 
7 



146 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

"Fret not thyself noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the 
sounds have ceased of a sudden — it may be they join not 
battle !" 

"Thou knowest naught of it," said Wilfred, impatiently; 
" this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts 
on the walls, and expecting an instant attack ; what we have 
heard was but the distant muttering of the storm— it will burst 
anon in all its fury. Could I but reach yonder window !" 

" Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," 
replied his attendant. Observing his extreme solicitude, she 
firmly added, " I myself will stand at the lattice, and describe 
to you as I can what passes without." 

" You must not — you shall not !" exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " each 
lattice, each aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers ; some 
random shaft" — 

" It shall be welcome !" murmured Rebecca, as with firm 
pace she ascended two or three steps which led to the window 
of which they spoke. 

" Rebecca, dear Rebecca !" exclaimed Ivanhoe, " this is no 
maiden's pastime — do not expose thyself to wounds and death, 
and render me forever miserable for having given occasion ; at 
least, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show as 
little of your person at the lattice as may be." 

Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivan- 
hoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient 
shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, 
Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could witness part 
of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe 
the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. 
Indeed the situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly 
favorable for this purpose, because, being placed on an angle of 
the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed be- 
yond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of 
the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. 
It was an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, 
intended to protect the postern-gate, through which Cedric bad 
been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle-moat 
divided this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so 
that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the com- 
munication with the main building by withdrawing the tempo- 
rary bridge. In the outwork was a sallyport corresponding to 
the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a 
strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of 
men placed for the defense of this post, that the besieged enter- 



SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 147 

tained apprehensions for its safety ; and from the mustering of 
the assailants in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it 
seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable 
point of attack. 

• These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and 
added, " The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, 
although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow." 

" Under what banner ?" asked Ivanhoe. 

" Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered 
Rebecca. 

" A singular novelty," muttered the knight, " to advance to 
storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed ! — 
Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ?" 

" A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicuous," 
said the Jewess : " he alone is armed from head to heel, and 
seems to assume the direction of all around him." 

" What device does he bear on his shield ?" replied Ivanhoe. 

" Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted 
blue on the black shield." 

" A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe : " I 
know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might 
now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto ?" 

" Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca : 
" but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I 
tell you." 

" Seem there no other leaders ?" exclaimed the anxious in- 
quirer. 

" None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this 
station," said Rebecca ; " but, doubtless, the other side of the 
castle is also assailed. They appear even now preparing to 
advance — God of Zion protect us ! What a dreadful sight 1 
Those who advance first bear huge shields, and defenses made 
of plank ; the others follow, bending their bows as they come 
on. They raise their bows ! God of Moses forgive the crea- 
tures thou hast made I" 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal 
for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and 
at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from 
the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and hollow 
clang of the nakers (a species of kettle-drum), retorted in notes 
of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both 
parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying, " Saint 
George for merry England !" and the Normans answering them 



148 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

with cries of " En avant de Bracy /—Beau-seant ! Beau-seant ! 
— Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse /" 

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be 
decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by 
an equally vigorous defense on the part of the besieged. The 
archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effect- 
ive use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of 
the time, so " wholly together," that no point at which a de- 
fender could show the least part of his person, escaped their 
cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which continued 
as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow 
had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each 
embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every win- 
dow where a defender either occasionally had post, or might be 
suspected to be stationed — by this sustained discharge two or 
three of the garrison were slain, and several others wounded. 
But, confident in their armor of proof, and in the cover which 
their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bceuf, and his 
allies, showed an obstinacy in defense proportioned to the fuiy 
of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large 
cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other 
missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows ; 
and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently pro- 
tected, did considerably more damage than they received at 
their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles on both 
sides was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when 
either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss. 

"And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed 
Ivanhoe, " while the game that gives me freedom or death is 
played out by the hand of others ! Look from the window once 
again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the 
archers beneath. Look out once more, and tell me if they yet 
advance to the storm." 

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she 
had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at 
the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible 
from beneath. 

"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the 
wounded knight. 

" Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle 
mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." 

" That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they press not 
right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery 



SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. 149 

may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look 
for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he 
bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be." 

"I see him not," said Rebecca. 

" Foul craven !" exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench from 
the helm when the wind blows highest ?" 

"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca, " I see 
him now ; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier 
of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades ; they 
hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats 
abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. 
They have made a breach in the barriers — Ihey rush in — they 
are thrust back ! Front-de-Bceuf heads the defenders ; I see 
his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the 
breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. 
God of Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict 
of two oceans moved by adverse winds !" 

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to 
endure a sight so terrible. 

" Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the 
cause of her retiring ; " the archery must in some degree have 
ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, 
there is now less danger." 

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, 
" Holy prophets of the law ! Front-de-Bceuf and the Black 
Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of 
their followers, who watch the progress of the strife — Heaven 
strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive !" She 
then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, " He is down — he is 
down !" 

" Who is down ?" cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear Lady's sake, 
tell me which has fallen ?" 

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then in- 
stantly again shouted with joyful eagerness — "But no — but 
no ! — the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed ! — he is on foot 
again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his 
single arm. His sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a 
yeoman — he presses Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow. The 
giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the wood- 
man — he falls— he falls !" 

"Front-de-Bceuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

" Front-de-Bceuf !" answered the Jewess ; " his men rush to 
the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force 



150 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

compels the champion to pause — they drag Front-de-Boeeuf 
within the walls." 

" The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ?" said 
Ivanhoe. 

" They have — they have !" exclaimed Rebecca — " and they 
press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant lad- 
ders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the 
shoulders of each other— down go stones, beams, and trunks of 
trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded 
to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great 
God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be 
thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren !" 

" Think not of that," said Ivanhoe ; " this is no time for such 
thoughts. Who yield ?— who push their way ?" 

" The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shudder- 
ing ; " the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed rep- 
tiles—the besieged have the better." 

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do 
the false yeomen give way ?" 

" No !" exclaimed Relbecca, " they bear themselves right yeo- 
manly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge 
axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them 
above all the din and shouts of the battle — stones and beams 
are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no 
more than if they were thistle-down or feathers !" 

" By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- 
fully on his couch, " methought there was but one man in 
England that might do such a deed !" 

" The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca ; it crashes — 
it is splintered by his blows — -they rush in — the outwork is 
won. Oh, God ! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements 
— they throw them into the moat. men, if ye be indeed men, 
spare them that can resist no longer !" 

" The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the cas- 
tle — have they won that pass ?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

" No," replied Rebecca, " the Templar has destroyed the 
plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped 
with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear 
tell the fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more difficult 
to look upon victory than upon battle." 

" What do they now, maiden ?" said Ivanhoe ; " look forth 
yet again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." 

" It is over for the time," answered Rebecca ; " our friends 



THE ARSENAL. 1 5 1 

strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have 
mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foe- 
man's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it from 
interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to 
injure them." 

" Our friends," said Wilfred, " will surely not abandon an 
enterprise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. O no ! 
I will put my faith in the good knight whose axe hath rent 
heart-of-oak and bars of iron. Singular," he again muttered to 
himself, " if there be two who can do a deed of such derring- 
do ! — a fetterlock and a shacklebolt on a field-sable — what may 
that mean ? — seest thou naught else, Rebecca, by which the 
Black Knight may be distinguished ?" 

" Nothing," said the Jewess ; " all about him is black as the 
wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him 
farther — but having once seen him put forth his strength in 
battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand 
warriprs. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a 
banquet. There is more than mere strength, there seems as if 
the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every 
blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of 
the sin of bloodshed ! — it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold 
how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hun- 
dreds." 



The Arsenal* — Longfellow. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arras ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies 1 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's sons' 



152 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; 
The soldier's revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 

With such accursed instruments as these, 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 

And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

• 
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 

Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 

There were no need of arsenals nor forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred 
And every nation, that should lift again 

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain I 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace !" 

Peace 1 and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



Compromise Bill of 1833.— H. Clay. 

Statesmen should regulate their conduct, and adapt their 
measures to the exigencies of the times in which they live. 
They cannot, indeed, transcend the limits of the constitutional 
rule ; but with respect to those systems of policy which fall 



COMPROMISE BILL OF 1833. I53 

within its scope, they should arrange them according to the 
interests, the wants, and the prejudices of the people. Two 
great dangers threaten the public safety. The true patriot will 
not stop to inquire how they have been brought about, but will 
fly to the deliverance of his country. The difference between 
the friends and the foes of the compromise, under consideration, 
is, that they would, in the enforcing act, send forth alone a 
flaming sword. We would send out that also, but along with 
it the olive branch, as a messenger of peace. They cry out, 
the law ! the law ! the law ! Power ! power ! power ! We, 
too, reverence the law, and bow to the supremacy of its obliga- 
tion ; but we are in favor of the law executed in mildness, and 
a power tempered with mercy. They, as we think, would 
hazard a civil commotion, beginning in South Carolina, and ex- 
tending, God only knows where. While we would vindicate 
the Federal Government, we are for peace, if possible, union, 
and liberty. We want no war ; above all, no civil war, no 
family strife. We want no sacked cities, no desolated fields, 
no smoking ruins, no streams of American blood shed by 
American arms ! 

I have been accused of ambition in presenting this measure. 
Ambition ! inordinate ambition ! If I had thought of myself 
only, I should have never brought it forward. I know well 
the perils to which I expose myself ; the risk of alienating 
faithful and valued friends, with but little prospect of making 
new ones, if any new ones could compensate for the loss of 
those whom we have long tried and loved ; and the honest mis- 
conceptions both of friends and foes. Ambition ! If I had 
listened to its soft and seducing whispers ; if I had yielded 
myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating, and prudential 
policy, I would have stood still and unmoved. I might even 
have silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest 
thunders, and left those who are charged with the care of the 
vessel of State, to conduct it as they could. I have been here- 
tofore often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, grovelling 
souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating themselves to the 
higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism — beings who, for 
ever keeping their own selfish aims in view, decide all public 
measures by their presumed influence on their aggrandize- 
ment — judge me by the venal rule which they prescribe to 
themselves. I have given to the winds those false accusations, 
as I consign that which now impeaches my motives. I have 
no desire for office, not even the highest. The most exalted is 

but a prison, in which the incarcerated incumbent dailv re- 

7 * 



154 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

ceives his cold, heartless visitants, marks his weary hours, 
and is cut off from the practical enjoyment of all the blessings 
of genuine freedom. I am no candidate for any office in the 
gift of the people of these States, united or separated; I never 
wish, never expect to be. Pass this bill, tranquillize the coun- 
try, restore confidence and affection in the Union, and I am 
willing to go home to Ashland, and renounce public service for 
ever. I should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on 
its lawns, amidst my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my 
family, sincerity and truth, attachment, and fidelity, and grati- 
tude, which I have not always found in the walks of public 
life. Yes, I have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the 
humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a 
divided people ; once more to revive concord and harmony in a 
distracted land — the pleasing ambition of contemplating the 
glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and fraternal 
people ! 



Adams and Jefferson.— ft. Everett. 

The jubilee of America is turned into mourning. Its joy is 
mingled with sadness ; its silver trumpet breathes a mingled 
strain. Henceforward and for ever, while America exists among 
the nations of the earth, the first emotion on the Fourth of 
July, shall be of joy and triumph in the great event which 
immortalizes the day ; the second shall be one of chastised and 
tender recollection of the venerable men who departed on the 
morning of the jubilee. This mingled emotion of triumph and 
sadness has sealed the moral beauty and sublimity of our great 
anniversary. In the simple commemoration of a victorious 
political achievement, there seems not enough to occupy all our 
purest and best feelings. The fourth of July was before a day 
of unshaded triumph, exultation, and national pride ; but the 
angel of death has mingled in the all-glorious pageant, to teach 
us we are men. Had our venerated fathers left us on any other 
day, the day of the united departure of two such men would 
henceforward have been remembered but as a day of mourning. 
But now, while their decease has gently chastened the exulta- 
tions of the triumphant festival, the banner of independence 
will wave cheerfully over the spot where they repose. The 



ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. I55 

whole nation feels, as with one heart, that since it must sooner 
or later have been bereaved of its revered fathers, it could not 
have wished that any other had been the day of their decease. 
Our anniversary festival was before triumphant; it is now 
triumphant and sacred. It before called out the young and 
ardent, to join in the public rejoicings; it now also speaks, in a 
touching voice, to the retired, to the grey-headed, to the mild 
and peaceful spirits, to the whole family of sober freemen. 
With some appeal of joy, of admiration, of tenderness, it hence- 
forth addresses every American heart. It is henceforward, 
what the dying Adams pronounced it, a great and a good day. 
It is full of greatness and full of goodness. It is absolute and 
complete. The death of the men who declared our independ- 
ence—their death on the day of the jubilee — was all that was 
wanting to the fourth of July. To die on that day, and to die 
together, was all that was wanting to Jefferson and Adams. 

Think not, fellow citizens, that in the mere formal discharge 
of my duty this day, I would overrate the melancholy interest 
of the great occasion. Heaven knows, I do anything but in- 
tentionally overrate it. I labor only for words to do justice to 
your feelings and to mine. I can say nothing which does not 
sound as cold, as tame, and as inadequate to myself as to you. 
The theme is too great and too surprising, the men are too 
great and good, to be spoken of in this cursory manner. There 
is too much in the contemplation of their united characters, 
their services, the day and coincidence of their death, to be 
properly described, or to be fully felt, at once. I dare not come 
here and dismiss, in a few summary paragraphs, the characters 
of men who have filled such a space in the history of their age. 
It would be a disrespectful familiarity with men of their lofty 
spirits, their rich endowments, their deep counsels, and wise 
measures, their long and honorable lives, to endeavor thus to 
weigh and estimate them. I leave that arduous task to the 
genius of kindred elevation, by whom to-morrow it will be dis- 
charged. I feei the mournful contrast in the fortunes of the 
first and best of men, that after a life in the highest walks of 
usefulness ; after conferring benefits, not merely on a neighbor- 
hood, a city, or even a State, but on a whole continent, and a 
posterity of kindred men ; after having stood in the first estima- 
tion for talents, services, and influence among millions of fellow 
citizens, a day should come which closes all up ; pronounces a 
brief blessing on their memory ; gives an hour to the .actions of 
a crowded life ; describes in a sentence what it took years to 
bring to pass, and what is destined, for years and ages, to con- 



156 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

tinue and operate on posterity ; forces into a few words the 
riches of busy days of action and weary nights of meditation ; 
passes forgetfully over many traits of character, many counsels 
and measures, which it cost perhaps years of discipline and 
effort to mature; utters a funeral prayer; chants a mournful 
anthem ; and then dismisses all into the dark chambers of death 
and forgetfulness. 

But no, fellow citizens, we dismiss them not to the chambers 
of forgetfulness and death. What we admired, and prized, and 
venerated in them can never die, nor, dying, be forgotten. I 
had almost said that they are now beginning to live ; to live 
that life of unimpaired influence, of unclouded fame, of un- 
mingled happiness, for which their talents and services were 
destined. They were of the select few, the least portion of 
whose life dwells in their physical existence ; whose hearts have 
watched, while their senses have slept ; whose souls have grown 
up into a higher being ; whose pleasure is to be useful ; whose 
wealth is an unblemished reputation ; who respire the breath of 
honorable fame; who have deliberately and consciously put 
what is called life to hazard, that they may live in the hearts of 
those who come after. Such men do not, cannot die. To be 
cold, and motionless, and breathless ; to feel not and speak 
not ; this is not the end of existence to the men who have 
breathed their spirits into the institutions of their country, who 
have stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, who 
have poured their hearts' blood into the channels of the public 
prosperity. Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred 
height, is Warren dead ? Can you not still see him, not pale 
and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his 
ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honor, 
with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty 
in his eye ? Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to 
the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut up in that 
cold and narrow house ? That which mad[e these men, and men 
like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the charter Pi 
independence is indeed motionless, the eloquent lips that sus- 
tained it are hushed ; but the lofty spirits that conceived, re* 
solved, matured, maintained it, and which alone, to such mea* 
" make it life to live," these cannot expire ; 

" These shall resist the empire of decay, 
When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away : 
Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die." 



PARTIES AND PARTY MEN 157 

Parties and Party Men.— William. Gaston. 

Threats of resistance, secession, separation, have become 
common as household words, in the wicked and silly violence of 
public declaimers. The public ear is familiarized, and the pub- 
lic mind will soon be accustomed, to the detestable suggestions 
of Disunion ! Calculations and conjectures, What may the 
East do without the South, and what may the South do without 
the East ? — sneers, menaces, reproaches, and recriminations, all 
tend to the same fatal end ! What can the East do without the 
South ? What can the South do without the East ? 

If it must be so, let parties and party men continue to quar- 
rel with little or no regard to the public good. They may 
mystify themselves and others with disputations on political 
economy, proving the most opposite doctrines to their own 
satisfaction, and perhaps to the conviction of no one else on 
earth. They may deserve reprobation for their selfishness, their 
violence, their errors, or their wickedness. They may do our 
country much harm. They may retard its growth, destroy its 
harmony, impair its character, render its institutions unstable, 
pervert the public mind, and deprave the public morals. These 
are, indeed, evils, and sore evils ; but the principle of life re- 
mains, and will yet struggle, with assured success, over these 
temporary maladies. 

Still we are great, glorious, united, and free ; still we have a 
name that is revered abroad, and loved at home — a name which 
is a tower of strength to us against foreign wrong, and a bond 
of internal union and harmony — a name which no enemy pro- 
nounces but with respect, and which no citizen hears but with 
a throb of exultation. Still we have that blessed Constitution, 
which, with all its pretended defects, and all its alleged viola- 
tions, has. conferred more benefit on man than ever yet flowed 
from any other human institution — which has established jus- 
tice, insured domestic tranquillity, provided for the common 
defense, promoted the general welfare, and which, under God, 
if we be true to ourselves, will insure the blessings of liberty 
to us and our posterity. 

Surely, such a country, and such a Constitution, have claims 
upon you, my friends, which cannot be disregarded. I entreat 
and adjure you, then, by all that is near and dear to you on 
earth, by all the obligations of patriotism, by the memory of 
your fathers who fell in the great and glorious struggle, for the 
sake of your sons, whom you would not have to blush for your 



158 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST: 

degeneracy ; by all your proud recollections of the past, and all 
the fond anticipations of the future renown of our nation — pre- 
serve that country — uphold that Constitution. Resolve that 
they shall not be lost, while in your keeping ; and may God 
Almighty strengthen you to perform that vow ! 



The Prairie on Fire*— Cooper. 

The sleep of the fugitives lasted for several hours. The 
trapper was the first to shake off its influence, as he had been 
the last to court its refreshment. Rising, just as the gray light 
of day began to brighten that portion of the studded vault 
which rested on the eastern margin of the plain, he summoned 
his companions from their warm lairs, and pointed out the 
necessity of their being once more on the alert 

"See, Middleton!" exclaimed Inez, in a sudden burst of 
youthful pleasure, that caused her for a moment to forget her 
situation. " How lovely is that sky ; surely it contains a pro- 
mise of happier times !" 

"It is glorious!" returned her husband. "Glorious and 
heavenly is that streak of vivid red, and here is a still brighter 
crimson — rarely have I seen a richer rising of the sun." 

" Rising of the sun !" slowly repeated the old man, lifting 
his tall person from its seat, with a deliberate and abstracted 
air, while he kept his eye riveted on the changing, and certainly 
beautiful tints that were garnishing the vault of heaven. 
" Rising of the sun ! I like not such risings of the sun. Ah's 
me ! the imps have circumvented us with a vengeance. The 
prairie is on fire I" 

" God in heaven protect us !" cried Middleton, catching Inez 
to his bosom under the instant impression of the imminence of 
their danger. " There is no time to lose, old man ; each instant 
is a day ; let us fly." 

"Whither?" demanded the trapper, motioning him with 
calmness and dignity, to arrest his steps. " In this wilderness 
of grass- and reeds, you are like a vessel in the broad lakes 
without a compass. A single step on the wrong course might 
prove the destruction of us all. It is seldom danger is so 
pressing that there is not time enough for reason to do its work, 
young officer ; therefore, let us await its biddings." 



THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 159 

" For my own part," said Paul Hover, looking about him 
with no unequivocal expression of concern, "I acknowledge, 
that should this dry bed of weeds get fairly in a flame, a bee 
would have to make a flight higher than common to prevent his 
wings from scorching. Therefore, old trapper, I agree with the 
captain, and say mount and run." 

" Ye are wrong — ye are wrong : — man is not a beast to follow 
the gift of instinct, and to snuff up his knowledge by a taint in 
the air, or a rumbling in the sound ; but he must see and reason, 
and then conclude. So follow me a little to the left, where 
there is a rise in the ground, whence we may make our recon- 
noiterings." 

The old man waved his hand with authority, and led the way 
without further parlance to the spot he had indicated, followed 
by the whole of his alarmed companions. An eye less prac- 
tised than that of the trapper might have failed in discovering 
the gentle elevation to which he alluded, and which looked on 
the surface of the meadow like a growth a little taller than com- 
mon. When they reached the place, however, the stinted grass 
itself announced the absence of that moisture which had fed 
the rank weeds of most of the plain, and furnished a clue to 
the evidence by which he had judged of the formation of the 
ground hidden beneath. Here a few minutes were lost in break- 
ing down the tops of the surrounding herbage, which, notwith- 
standing the advantage of their position, rose even above the 
heads of Middleton and Paul, and in obtaining a look-out that 
might command a view of the surrounding sea of fire. . . . 

The examination which his companions so instantly and so 
intently made, rather served to assure them of their desperate 
situation than to appease their fears. Huge columns of smoke 
were rolling up from the plain, and thickening in gloomy masses 
around the horizon. The red glow which gleamed upon their 
enormous folds, now lighting their volumes with the glare of 
the conflagration, now flashed to another point, as the flame 
beneath glided ahead, leaving all behind enveloped in awful 
darkness, and proclaiming louder than words the character of 
the imminent and rapidly approaching danger. 

"This is terrible!" exclaimed Middleton, folding the trem- 
bling Inez to his heart. " At such a time as this, and in such 
a manner !" 

" The gates of heaven are open to all who truly believe," 
murmured the pious devotee in his bosom. 

" This resignation is maddening ! But we are men, and will 
make a struggle for our lives ! How now, my brave and spirited 



160 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

friend, shall we yet mount and push across the flames, or shall 
we stand here and see those we most love perish in this fright- 
ful manner without an effort ?" 

"I am for a swarming time, and a flight before the hive is 
too hot to hold us," said the bee-hunter, to whom it will be at 
once seen that the half-distracted Middleton addressed himself. 
" Come, old trapper, you must acknowledge this is but a slow 
way of getting out of danger. If we tarry here much longer, 
it will be in the fashion that the bees lie around the straw 
after the hive has been smoked for its honey. You may hear 
the fire begin to roar already, and I know by experience, that 
when the flame once gets fairly into the prairie grass, it is no 
sloth that can outrun it." 

" Think you," returned the old man, pointing scornfully at 
the mazes of the dry and matted grass which environed them, 
"that mortal feet can outstrip the speed of fire on such a path ?" 

" What say you, friend doctor," cried the bewildered Paul, 
turning to the naturalist, with that sort of helplessness with 
which the strong are often apt to seek the aid of the weak, 
when human power is baffled by the hand of a mightier being, 
"what say you ; have you no advice to give away, in a case of 
life and death ?" 

The naturalist stood, tablets in hand, looking at the awful 
spectacle with as much composure as though the conflagration 
had been lighted in order to solve the difficulties of some scien- 
tific problem. Aroused by the question of his companion, he 
turned to his equally calm though differently occupied associate, 
the trapper, demanding, with the most provoking insensibility 
to the urgent nature of their situation — " Venerable hunter, you 
have often witnessed similar prismatic experiments"— - 

He was rudely interrupted by Paul, who struck the tablets 
from his hands with a violence that betrayed the utter intel- 
lectual confusion which had overset the equanimity of his mind. 
Before time was allowed for remonstrance, the old man, who 
had continued during the whole scene like one much at a loss 
how to proceed, though also like one who was rather perplexed 
than alarmed, suddenly assumed a decided air, as if he no longer 
doubted on the course it was most advisable to pursue. 

" It is time to be doing," he said, interrupting the contro- 
versy that was about to ensue between the naturalist and the 
bee-hunter; "it is time to leave off books and moanings, and 
to be doing." 

" You have come to your recollections too late, miserable old 
man," cried Middleton; "the flames are witfck a quarter of a 






THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 161 

mile of us, and the wind is bringing them down in this quarter 
with dreadful rapidity." 

" Anan ! the flames ! I care but little for the flames. If I 
only knew how to circumvent the cunning of the Tetons. as I 
know how to cheat the fire of its prey, there would be nothing 
needed but thanks to the Lord for our deliverance. Do you 
call this a fire? If you had seen what I have witnessed in 
the eastern hills, when mighty mountains were like the furnace 
of a smith, you would have known what it was to fear the 
flames, and to be thankful that you were spared! Come, lads, 
come ; 'tis time to be doing now, and to cease talking ; for yon- 
der curling flame is truly coming on like a trotting moose. Put 
hands upon this short and withered grass where we stand, and 
lay bare the 'arth." 

"Would you think to deprive the fire of its victims in this 
childish manner ?" exclaimed Middleton. 

A faint but solemn smile passed over the features of the old 
man as he answered — "Your gran'ther would have said, that 
when the enemy was nigh, a soldier could do no better than to 
obey." 

The captain felt the reproof, and instantly began to imitate 
the industry of Paul, who was tearing the decayed herbage 
from the ground in a sort of desperate compliance with the 
trapper's direction. Even Ellen lent her hands to the labor, 
nor was it long before Inez was seen similarly employed, though 
none amongst them knew why or wherefore. When life is 
thought to be the reward of labor, men are wont to be indus- 
trious. A very few moments sufficed to lay bare a spot of some 
twenty feet in diameter. Into one edge of this little area the 
trapper brought the females, directing Middleton and Paul to 
cover their light and inflammable dresses with the blankets of 
the party. So soon as this precaution was observed, the old 
man approached the opposite margin of the grass, which still 
environed them in a tall and dangerous circle, and selecting a 
handful of the driest of the herbage, he placed it over the pan 
of his rifle. The light combustible kindled at the flash. Then 
he placed the little flame into a bed of the standing fog, and 
withdrawing from the spot to the centre of the ring, he pa- 
tiently awaited the result. 

The subtle element seized with avidity upon its new fuel, and 
in a moment forked flames were gliding among the grass, as 
the tongues of ruminating animals are seen rolling among their 
food, apparently in quest of its sweetest portions. 

" Now," said the old man, holding up a finger and laughing 



162 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

in his peculiarly silent manner, " you shall see fire fight fire ! 
Ah's me ! many is the time I have burnt a smootly path from 
wanton laziness to pick my way across a tangled bottom." 

" But is this not fatal ?" cried the amazed Middleton ; " are 
you not bringing the enemy nigher to us instead of avoiding it ?" 

"Do you scorch so easily? — your gran'ther had a tougher 
skin. But we shall live to see ; we shall all live to see." 

The experience of the trapper was in the right. As the fire 
gained strength and heat it began to spread on three sides, 
dying of itself on the fourth for want of aliment. As it in- 
creased, and the sullen roaring announced its power, it cleared 
everything before it, leaving the black and smoking soil far 
more naked than if the scythe had swept the place. The situ- 
ation of the fugitives would have still been hazardous, had not 
the area enlarged as the flame encircled them. But by ad- 
vancing to the spot where the trapper had kindled the grass, 
they avoided the heat, and in a very few moments the flames 
began to recede in every quarter, leaving them enveloped in a 
cloud of smoke, but perfectly safe from the torrent of fire that 
was still furiously rolling onward. 

The spectators regarded the simple expedient of the trapper 
with that species of wonder with which the courtiers of Fer- 
dinand are said to have viewed the manner in which Columbus 
made his egg to stand on its end, though with feelings that 
were filled with gratitude instead of envy. 

" Most wonderful !" said Middleton, when he saw the com- 
plete success of the means by which they had been rescued 
from a danger that he had conceived to be unavoidable. " The 
thought was a gift from heaven, and the hand that executed 
it should be immortal." 

" Old trapper," cried Paul, thrusting his fingers through his 
shaggy locks, " I have lined many a loaded bee into his hole, 
and know something of the nature of the woods, but this is 
robbing a hornet of his sting without touching the insect !" 

" It will do, it will do," returned the old man, who after the 
first moment of his success seemed to think no more of the ex- 
ploit. ... " Let the flames do their work for a short half hour, 
and then we will mount. That time is needed to cool the meadow, 
for these unshod beasts are tender on the hoof as a barefooted 

£ ir1 -" 

The veteran, on whose experience they all so implicitly relied 
for protection, employed himself in reconnoitering objects in the 
distance, through the openings which the air occasionally made 
in the immense bodies of smoke, that by this time lay in enor- 
mous piles on every part of the plain. 



CHAMOUNY. 163 

Chamouny.—CouERiDGE. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 

In his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause 

On thy bald, awful front, O sovereign Blanc ; 

The Arve and Arveiron, at thy base 

Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form, 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 

How silently ! Around thee and above, 

Deep is the air, and dark ; substantial black, 

An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 

As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 

Thy habitation from eternity. 

O dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

[ worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought — 

Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy — 

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 

Into the mighty vision passing — there, 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! Not only passive praise 
Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and silent ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! 
Oh ! struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink — 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, wake ! O wake ! and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered, and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded — and the silence came- — 

" Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?" 



164 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Ye ice-falls ! ye, that, from the mountain's brow, 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,. 

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts-! 

"Who made you glorious, as the gates of heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 

"God !" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 

Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, " God !" 

" God !" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! 

Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 

And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. 

And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder " God !" 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 

Utter forth " God !" and fill the hills with praise. 

Thou, too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That — as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears — 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — rise, ever rise ! 
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth. 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
" Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



Genius Waking,— Percival. 



Slumber's heavy chain hath bound thee- 

Where is now thy fire ? 
Feebler wings are gathering round thee- 

Shall they hover higher ? 
Can no power, no spell recall thee 

From inglorious dreams ? 
0, could glory so appal thee, 

With his burning beams ? 



GENIUS WAKING. 165 

Thine was once the highest pinion 

In the midway air ; 
"With a proud and sure dominion, 

Thou didst upward bear. 
Like the herald, winged with lightning, 

From the Olympian throne, 
Ever mounting, ever brightening, 

Thou wert there alone. 

"Where the pillared props of heaven 

Glitter with eternal snows, 
"Where no darkling clouds are driven, 

"Where no fountain flows- 
Ear above the rolling thunder, 

"When the surging storm 
Rents its sulphury folds asunder, 

We beheld thy form. 

0, what rare and heavenly brightness 

Flowed around thy plumes, 
As a cascade's foamy whiteness, 

Lights a cavern's glooms ! 
"Wheeling through the shadowy ocean t 

Like a shape of light, 
"With serene and placid motion, 

Thou wert dazzling bright. 

From that cloudless region stooping, 

Downward thou didst rush, 
Not with pinion faint and drooping, 

But the tempest's gush. 
Up again undaunted soaring, 

Thou didst pierce the cloud, 
"When the warring Aland's were roaring 

Fearfully and loud. 

Where is now that restless longing 

After higher things ? 
Come they not, like visions, thronging 

On their airy wings ? 
Why should not their glow enchant thee 

Upward to their bliss ? 
Surely danger cannot daunt thee 

From a heaven like this. 

But thou slumberest ; faint and quivering 

Hangs thy ruffled wing ; 
Like a dove in winter shivering, 

Or a feebler thing. 
Where is now thy might and motion, 

Thy imperial flight? 
Where is now thy heart's devotion ? 

Where thy spirit's light ? 



166 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Hark ! his rustling plumage gathers 

Closer to his side, 
Close, as when the storm -bird weathers 

Ocean's hurrying tide. 
Now his nodding beak is steady — 

Wide his burning eye — 
Now his opening wings are ready, 

And his aim — how high ! 

Now he curves his neck, and proudly 

Now is stretched for flight — 
Hark ! his wings — they thunder loudly 

And their flash— how bright ! 
.Onward— onward, over mountains, 

Through the rock and storm, 
Now, like sunset over fountains, 

Flits his glancing form. 

Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee — 

Thou hast reached thy heaven — 
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee 

Of the glory given. 
With a bold, a fearless pinion, 

On thy starry road, 
None, to fame's supreme dominion, 

Mightier ever trode. 



Homes and Graves.— -T. k. Hervet. 

How beautiful a world were ours, 

But for the pale and shadowy One 
That treadeth on its pleasant flowers, 

And stalketh in its sun ! 
Glad childhood needs the lore of time 

To show the phantom overhead ; 
But where the breast, before its prime, 

That carrieth not its dead — 
The moon that looketh on whose home 
In all its circuit sees no tomb ? 

It was an ancient tyrant's thought, 

To link the living with the dead; 
Some secret of his soul had taught 

That lesson dark and dread ; 
And, oh! we bear about us still 

The dreary moral of his art- 
Some form that lieth, pale and chill, 

Upon each living heart, 
Tied to the memory, till a wave 
Shall lay them in one common grave ! 



HOMES AND GRAVES. 16*7 

To boyhood hope — to manhood fears ! 

Alas ! alas ! that each bright home 
Should be a nursing-place of tears, 

A cradle for the tomb ! 
If childhood seeth all things loved 

Where home's unshadowy shadows wave, 
The old man's treasure hath removed — 

He looketh to the grave ! — 
For grave and home lie sadly blent, 
Wherever spreads you firmament. 

A few short years — and then, the boy 

Shall miss, beside the household hearth, 
Some treasure from his store of joy, 

To find it not on earth ; 
A shade within its saddened walls 

Shall sit, in some beloved's room, 
And one dear name, he vainly calls, 

Be written on a tomb — 
And he have learnt, from all beneath, 
His first, dread, bitter taste of death ! 

And years glide on, till manhood's come ; 

And where the young, glad faces were, 
Perchance the once bright, happy home 

Hath many a vacant chair : 
A darkness, from the church-yard shed, 

Hath fallen on each familiar room, 
And much of all home's light hath fled 

To smoulder in the tomb — 
And household gifts that memory saves 
But help to count the household graves. 

Then, homes and graves the heart divide 

As they divide the outer world ; 
But drearier days must yet betide, 

Ere sorrow's wings be furled ; 
When more within the church-yard lie 

Than sit and sadly smile at home. 
Till home, unto the old man's eye, 

Itself appears a tomb; 
And his tired spirit asks the grave 
For all the home it longs to have ! 

It shall be so — it shall be so ! 

Go bravely trusting — trusting on ; 
Bear up a few short years — and, lo ! 

The grave and home are one ! — • 
And then, the bright ones gone before 

Within another, happier home, 
And waiting, fonder than before, 

Until the old man come — 
A home where but the life-trees wave ; 
Like childhood's — it hath not a grave ! 



168 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The Boarding House,— Dickens. 

Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, 
thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London ; 
and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was decidedly the neatest in all 
Great Coram-street. The area and the area steps, and the 
street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and 
the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as 
clean and bright as indefatigable whitewashing, and heart-ston- 
ing, and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder 
was, that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription 
" Mrs. Tibbs," had never caught fire from constant friction, so 
perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking 
blinds in the parlor windows, blue and gold curtains in the 
drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont 
in the pride of her heart to boast, "all the way up." The bell- 
lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap-bubble ; you 
could see yourself in all the tables, and French- polish yourself 
on any one of the chairs. The balusters were bees'- waxed, 
and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so 
glittering. 

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs 
was by no means a large man. He had, moreover, very short 
legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. 
He was to his wife what the is in 90 — he was of some import- 
ance with her — he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was 
always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke ; but if it were at any 
time possible to put in a word, just when he should have said 
nothing at all, he did it. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and 
Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been 
heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, " I recol- 
lect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and 
six" — but as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better 
half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the intro- 
ductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story- 
teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism. 

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension- 
list — about 431. 15s. 10c?. a year. His father, motherland five 
interesting scions from the same stock drew a like sum from the 
revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular ser- 
vice was never distinctly known. But as this said independ- 
ence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the 
luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of 



THE BOARDING HOUSE. 169 

Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 1001. 
would be to take and furnish a tolerable house, somewhere in 
that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the 
British Museum, and a remote village called Somers Town, for 
the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot 
pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly ; two 
female servants and a boy engaged, and an advertisement in- 
serted in the morning papers, informing the public that " Six 
individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful 
musical home in a select private family, residing within ten min- 
utes' walk of everywhere." Answers out of number were 
received, with all sorts of initials ; all the letters of the alphabet 
seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and 
lodging ; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. 
Tibbs and the applicants, and most profound was the secrecy 
which was to be observed. " E." didn't like this, and " I." 
couldn't think of putting up with that ; " I. O. U." didn't think 
the terms would suit him ; and " G. R." had never slept in a 
French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen 
became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs's house, on terms which were 
" agreeable to all parties." In went the advertisement again, 
and a lady with her two daughters proposed to increase — not 
their families, but Mrs. Tibbs's. 

" Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone !" said Mrs. Tibbs, 
as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast ; 
the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. 
" Charming woman, indeed !" repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more 
by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought 
of consulting her husband. " And the two daughters are 
delightful. We must have some fish to-day ; they'll join us afc 
dinner for the first time." 

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire- 
shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to 
say. 

" The young ladies," continued Mrs. T., " have kindly volun- 
teered* to bring their own piano." 

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. 
A bright thought struck him — 

" It's very likely," said he. 

"Pray don't lean your head against the paper," interrupted 
Mrs. Tibbs — "and don't put your feet on the steel fender; 
that's worse." 

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the 
fender, and proceeded. " It's very likely one of the young 
8 



170 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and j^ou know a 
marriage" — 

"A what!" shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated 
his former suggestion. 

" I beg you wont mention such a thing," said Mrs. T. " A 
marriage, indeed ! — to rob me of my boarders — no, not for the 
world." 

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no 
means unlikely, but as he never argued with his wife, he put a 
stop to the dialogue, by observing it was " time to go to busi- 
ness." He always went out at ten o'clock in the morning, and 
returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, 
and smelling very mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or 
where he went to ; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say, with an air of 
great importance, that he was engaged in the City. 

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived 
in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accom- 
panied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, 
bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes, and parasols, guitar-cases, and par- 
cels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and 
fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there was such a 
running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for 
warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and 
confusion, and heating of servants and curling-irons, as had 
never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. 
Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking inces- 
santly, and distributing towels and soap, and all the et cceteras, 
like a head-nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to 
its usual state of quiet repose until the ladies were safely shut 
up in their respective bed-rooms, engaged in the important occu- 
pation of dressing for dinner. 

" Are these gals andsome ?" inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. 
Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing 
themselves in the drawing-room before dinner, by lolling on the 
sofas, and contemplating their pumps. 

"Don't know," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tall- 
ish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon 
round his neck instead of a neckerchief — a most interesting per- 
son ; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a " very talented 
young man." He was fond of "lugging" into conversation all 
sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself 
by the propriety of their application, in which particular he was 
remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of 
those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen 



THE BOARDING HOUSE. 171 

are upon the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation 
than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty headed as 
the great bell of St. Paul's ; always dressed according to the 
caricatures published in the monthly fashions, and spelt Charac- 
ter with a K. 

" I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I 
came home," simpered Simpson. 

" Materials for the toilet, no doubt," rejoined the Don Juan 
reader. 

— " Much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete ; 
With other articles of ladies fair, 
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat." 

" Is that from Milton ?" inquired Mr. Simpson. 

"No — from Byron," returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of pro- 
found contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he 
had never read any other. " Hush !" said the sapient hospital 
walker, " Here come the gals," and they both commenced talk- 
ing in a very loud key. 

"Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. 
Mr. Hicks — Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones," said 
Mrs. Tibbs with a very red face, for she had been superintend- 
ing the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax 
doll on a sunny day. " Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon — Mr. 
Simpson — Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones" — and vice 
versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with 
much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had 
been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The 
ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for 
dropping pocket-handkerchiefs : the gentlemen leant against two 
of the curtain-pegs ; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of 
serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some 
question about fish-sauce, and then the two young ladies looked 
at each other ; and every body else appeared to discover some- 
thing very attractive in the pattern of the fender. 

" Julia, my love," said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest 
daughter, in a tone just loud enough for the remainder of the 
company to hear — "Julia." 

" Yes, Ma." 

" Don't stoop." This was said for the purpose of directing 
general attention to Miss Julia's figure, which was undeniable. 
Every body looked at her accordingly, and there was another 
pause. 



172 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you 
can imagine," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confi- 
dential tone. 

" Dear me !" replied the hostess, with an air of great commis- 
eration. She couldn't say more, for the servant again appeared 
at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her 
" Misses." 

" I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil," said Mr. 
Hicks in his most insinuating tone. 

"Positively I think they are," replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if 
the idea had never struck her before. 

"And cabmen, too," said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a 
failure, for no one intimated by word or sign the slightest know- 
ledge of the manners and customs of cabmen. 

" Robinson, what do you want ?" said Mrs. Tibbs to the 
servant who, by way of making her presence known to her mis- 
tress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door 
during the preceding five minutes. 

" Please, ma'am, master wants his clean things," replied the 
servant, completely taken off her guard. There was no resist- 
ing this : the two young men turned their faces to the window, 
and " went off" like a couple of bottles of ginger beer ; the 
ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths, and little Mrs. 
Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen — 
and the servant warning. 

Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made 
his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the con- 
versation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau — an old boy. 
He used to say of himself that although his features were not 
regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were : 
it was impossible to look at his face without being forcibly re- 
minded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-iron, half-monkey ; 
and the comparison might be extended to his whole character 
and conversation. He had stood still while everything else had 
been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started a 
new idea ; but if any commonplace topic were broached, or, to 
pursue the comparison, if any body lifted Mm up, he would 
hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic-dolou- 
reux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, 
because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, 
when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over 
and over again. He had never been married ; but he was still 
on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest 
worth about 300£. a year — he was exceedingly vain, and inordi- 



THE BOARDING HOUSE. 173 

nately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the 
very pink of politeness, and he walked round the park, and up 
Regent-street every day. 

This respectable personage had made up his mind to render 
himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone — indeed, the 
desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the 
whole party ; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little 
bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had 
some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to 
the ladies, that all the gentlemen were " eligible." A little flirt- 
ation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading 
to any other result. 

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty : 
shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious 
on behalf of her daughters ; in proof whereof she used to re- 
mark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it 
would benefit her dear girls — she could have no other motive. 
The " dear girls" themselves were not at all insensible to the 
merits of " a good establishment." One of them was twenty- 
five, the other three years younger. They had been at different 
watering-places for four seasons ; they had gambled at libra- 
ries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at 
assemblies, talked sentiment — in short, they had done all that 
industrious girls could do — and all to no purpose. 

" What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is ?" whispered 
Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. 

" Splendid !" returned the youngest. The magnificent indi- 
vidual alluded to wore a sort of maroon-colored dress-coat, with 
a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint — very like that which 
usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who con- 
descends to play the " swell" in the pantomime at " Richard- 
son's Show." 

" What whiskers !" said Miss Julia. 

" Charming !" responded her sister ; " and what hair !" His 
hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave 
which graces the shining locks of those chef-d'ozuvres of peruque- 
rian art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot's window, 
in Regent-street ; his whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, seemed 
strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them 
unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. 

" Dinner's on the table, ma'am, if you please," said the boy, 
who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of 
his master's, 

" Oh ! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone ? — Thank 



174 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

you." Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septi- 
mus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda ; and the procession 
proceeded to the dining room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and 
Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure 
in a Dutch clock with a powerful spring in the middle of his 
body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the 
table, delighted to screen himself behind the soup-tureen, which 
he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were 
seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of 
bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches ; and then Mrs. Tibbs 
directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster-sauce, 
giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were dis-covered : 
potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape 
and size of blank dice. 

" Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear," said the bustling Mrs. 
Tibbs. She always called her husband " my dear" before com- 
pany. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating 
how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the 
soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put 
his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife. 

" Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish ?" 

" If you please — very little — oh ! plenty, thank you," (a bit 
about the size of a walnut put upon the plate.) 

" Julia is a very little eater," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. 

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating fish 
with his eyes : so he only ejaculated, " Ah !" 

" My dear," said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse, after every one 
else had been helped, " What do you take?" The inquiry was 
accompanied with a look intimating that he musn't say fish, be- 
cause there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown refer- 
red to the island on the table-cloth ; he therefore coolly replied, 
" Why— I'll take a little— fish, I think." 

" Did you say fish, my dear ?" (another frown.) 

" Yes, dear," replied the villain, with an expression of acute 
hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started 
to Mrs. Tibbs' eyes, as she helped her " wretch of a husband," 
as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on 
the dish. 

" James take this to your master, and take away your mas- 
ter's knife." This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could 
eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase 
small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece 
of bread and a fork, occasionally securing a bit ; the number of 
successful attempts being about one in seventeen. 



THE BOARDING HOUSE. If 5 

" Take away, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, just as Tibbs had 
swallowed the fourth mouthful — and away went the plates like 
lightning. 

" I'll take a bit of bread, James," said the poor " master of 
the house," more hungry than ever. 

" Never mind your master now, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, 
" see about the meat." This was conveyed in the tone in 
which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, 
that is to say, a low one ; but which, like a stage whisper, 
from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by every 
body present. 

A pause ensued before the table was replenished — a sort of 
parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton and Mr. Hicks 
produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, 
and took wine with every body — except Tibbs : no one ever 
thought of him. 

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin there was a pro- 
longed interval. 

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist 
the singularly appropriate quotation — 

" But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 

Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on." 

" Very ungentlemaniy behavior," thought little Mrs. Tibbs, 
" to talk in that way." 

" Ah," said Mr. Calton, filling his glass, "Tom Moore is my 
poet." 

" And mine," said Mrs. Maplesone. 

" And mine," said Miss Julia. 

" And mine," added Mr. Simpson. 

'* Look at his compositions," resumed the knocker. 

" To be sure," said Simpson, with confidence. 

"Look at Don Juan," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. 

"Julia's letter," suo-a-ested Miss Matilda. 

" Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers ?" 
inquired Miss Julia. 

"To be sure,'' said Simpson. 

" Or Paradise and the Peri/- said the old beau. 

" Yes ; or Paradise and the Peer," repeated Mr. Simpson, 
who thought he was getting through it capitally. 

"It's all very well," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we 
have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. 



176 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Where will you find anything finer than the description of the 
siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto ?" 

" Talking of a siege," said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread — 
" when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and 
six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart ; and one 
day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the Lon- 
don University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me 
from the ranks), Tibbs" — 

"Tell your master, James," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an 
awfully distinct tone, "■ tell your master if he wont carve those 
fowls, to send them to me." The discomfited volunteer instantly 
set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his 
wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever 
finished the story is not exactly known, but if he did nobody 
heard it. 

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at 
home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs 
himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immedi- 
ately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most 
eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chester- 
field's Letters ; and Mr. Calton followed up what every body 
said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly ap- 
proved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone ; and 
as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said " Yes," 
or " Certainly," at intervals of about four minutes each, he re- 
ceived full credit for understanding what was going forward. 
The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very 
shortly after they had left the dining-parlor. Mrs. Maplesone 
and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the " young people" 
amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss 
Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied 
themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue 
ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was 
in raptures ; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry, 
or the seventh canto of Don Juan — it was the same thing to 
him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new comers, and 
Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way — he went to sleep, 
and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper- 
time. 



THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF GENIUS. 177 

The Lights and Shadows of Genius,— Original. 

YOUTH. 

Connected as genius is with every great and valuable 
acquirement in man, it need not be a matter of surprise 
that its possessors should be ranked as the demi-gods of 
their age, or that, when pagan darkness overspread the earth, 
divine honors should have been awarded to the proud deposi- 
tories of this faculty ! These beacon-lights of the world, ele- 
vated above their fellow men, and sublimated by the ethereal 
qualities of which they are composed, realize the creation of 
the poet, who, when describing one of the purely imaginative 
class, says — 

" He glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, 
And, as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, his mighty pow'r 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothings 
A local habitation and a name I" 

Here are the inherent qualities of genius, sketched by a 
master hand ! Minds thus endowed appropriate the whole 
world and its productions to their particular use ; and, entering 
into the vast temple of "Nature's God," they penetrate its 
recesses, and are initiated into secrets, and develope beauties in 
creation, impervious to inferior minds. They clothe in the 
fervid colors of imagination every scene they witness, every 
circumstance by which they are surrounded ; and create for 
themselves an existence more glorious, more elevated, and more 
exquisite, than is allotted to the plain matter-of-fact individual, 
who wears out his allotted meed of days in uniform monotony, 
uncheered by the illuminations of this splendid but dangerous 
gift ! Shakspeare has said — 

" Spirits are not finely touch'd, 
But to fine issues." 

But are the issues of these finely-touched spirits always fine ? 
Is there not too frequently an accompanying moral shade, over 
which humanity weeps, and at which the stern moralist points 
the sarcastic finger of scorn ? 

Let us glance at the Youth of Genius. It was long the 
feeling of antiquity, that the future character of genius 
was presaged by its early developments ; and the biogra- 
8* 



178 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

phy of most men of genius attests the fact. Intellectual 
superiority and precocity of talent are discoverable in the 
precincts of the nursery, and ripen and mature in the play- 
ground. And yet, with all the bright imaginings of the youth- 
ful genius, its hopeful prospects of the future, the rapturous 
feelings conveyed to parents' hearts, oh, how closely are the 
germs of future woe allied to this period of existence ! How 
darkly are the shadows of the after life cast over the perspective 
vista that opens in mystic dimness before its path ! Even then, 
when the freshness of the young heart lives almost wholly in 
the ideal, when the unchecked aspirations of the youthful mind 
revel in visions of pure and holy light, how closely allied is this 
dreamy existence to the dull, cold realities which are preparing 
by the world to crush the young neophyte's air-built castles 
and dispel all his fancied joys ! There is something inexpressibly 
beautiful in the early developments of the youth of genius. 
The reverence for holy influences, which almost invariably 
marks the budding child of genius, (it seems instinctive at this 
period ;) then its lonely musings ; its shrinking from the bois- 
terous crowd of young cotemporaries ; the contemplative cast 
of mind ; the early indication of a refined taste ; its quickness 
of perception, apparently intuitive ; the rapidity with which 
difficulties are surmounted; the outstripping of boyish com- 
petitors ; the proud consciousness of superiority ; the supremacy 
of mind over matter — how delightful to witness all this ! how 
triumphant is the joy conveyed to parents and friends ! And 
yet this picture, breathing as it does with light and purity, is 
too often clouded by the darkest shades. 

The melancholy temperament engendered by this precocity, 
the inaptitude for regular study, and the consequent undis- 
ciplined mind thereby produced, are often causes of poignant 
sorrow, created by sons — 

" Who, doomed a father's hopes to cross, 
Oft pen a stanza when they should engross." 

Yes, the disobedience of the youth of genius is perhaps among 
the most painful shades of its character ! Devoted parents have 
traced the future course of their child — a bright career of this 
world's honor and wealth terminate their hopes ; when unex- 
pectedly all these desires are crushed by the erratic and self- 
willed propensities of the erring child. The visions of glory 
anticipated by the young aspirant are not realized by the 
cautious parents ; they consider them but as " idle fancies," 
**■ unreal mockeries," and thus early are the gloomy shades of 



THE LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF GENIUS. \>]Q 

disappointment encircled around both parents and children, 
which even the future triumphs of genius cannot wholly dispel. 
But if, as is too frequently the melancholy case with those of 
high poetic tempernment, the parent has to witness the pros- 
tration of the bodily powers of the child by indiscretion or the 
insidious workings of disease, produced by the overtasking 
of the mental powers, until at length the "golden cord is 
loosened," and the victim prematurely sinks to an early grave ! 
These, these are indeed shadows that surround the youth of 
genius, which parents alone can realize, and which paternal 
affection can alone portray. 



The Lights and Shadows of Genius,— Original. 

MANHOOD. 

It is in the Manhood of Genius, when, by that prerogative 
which is its birthright, genius assumes the intellectual nobility 
patents cannot confer ! It would require a pencil dipped in the 
hues of heaven faithfully to portray the Lights reflected by 
genius at this stage of its existence ! All knowledge that has 
ennobled man, and which has brought him nearer to the Divine 
image, has sprung from the creative power of genius in its 
ripened manhood. The sciences, mechanics, and the arts have 
been perfected by this wondrous faculty, and MAN, gifted by 
this emanation of Divinity, has indeed realized the poet's pic- 
ture — 

" In action like an angel — in apprehension like a god ! 
The beauty of the world — the paragon of animals !" 

Can we imagine a state of feeling more sublimated than that 
of the possessor of genius, when its creative power has solved 
some hitherto impenetrable phenomenon of Nature, or has per- 
fected some mighty undertaking that ranks the inventor among 
the illustrious benefactors of the human race ? 

Poets and artists, who are the purely imaginative children 
of genius, have their triumphs, conferring a mental delight, 
surpassing the famed ovations of the Roman conquerors. Those 
who are cold and unimaginative smile at the enthusiasm of 
genius. But to the reflective mind it is a subject of pleasing 



180 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

analysis, in tracing the biography of genius, that this enthusi- 
asm is frequently its chief support through difficulty, toil, and 
neglect. It is this quick sensibility, almost approaching to de- 
lirium, that was supposed by Livy to produce the faculty of 
enabling the possessor to even " lift the veil of Nature," and 
of so cultivating the intellectual powers as to connect man with 
the common Master of the universe. It is this peculiar trait in 
the character of genius that was denominated the " ideal 
presence of things," and has led to the mightiest creations of 
the human mind ! 

It is this marked characteristic of genius (that enthusiasm 
which no difficulties can subdue) that has enabled the renowned 
warrior, the profound philosopher, the adept in science, the 
wonder-working machinist, the inspired poet, and the super- 
eminent artist to build up their imperishable reputations, and to 
become the wonder and envy of their age. And what an in- 
tellectual nobility is thus stamped upon the child of true 
genius ! to which the world involuntarily yields a submissive 
homage. 

It has been well said, that there are days in the life of genius 
that repay its sufferings. As the organ of a nation, nay of the 
world — for "no pent-up Utica confines its bounds" — it has the 
power of creating and directing the tastes of its fellow men ; 
receiving, as its reward, the spontaneous tribute of respect, of 
admiration, and of love. 

I have thus rapidly sketched the lights beaming around the 
path of genius, which are almost without an accompanying 
shadow ; and, when taken in connection with the veneration that 
consecrates even the commonest objects associated with its 
memory, may well lead us to exclaim, that this emanation of 
Divinity is indeed an enviable gift, elevating, as it does, the 
possessor to a pedestal in the Pantheon of this world's gods. 

But alas ! this picture, so radiant in light, so brilliant in color- 
ing, has its Shadows. 

We have already endeavored to depict the possessor of 
genius ; and although I may be met with the objection that I 
have confined myself too exclusively to a delineation of the 
poetical character of genius, yet, to such objectors I would 
say — Peruse attentively the lives of philosophers, men of sci- 
ence, and great mechanicians, and you will find that, in a com- 
parative degree, occasionally modified by constitutional tem- 
perament or by contingent circumstances, the portrait will suit 
the " whole tribe." The possessors of this faculty are imagin- 
ative in the highest sense the term is capable of bearing ; they 



PUBLIC FAITH THE BASIS OF NATIONAL HONOR. 181 

revel in the visions of their own creative fancy with unrestrained 
indulgence, forming for themselves an existence of their own. 
They cannot, during the delirium of enthusiasm, descend to 
mix with those grosser materials that compose this every-day 
world. They shrink, with fastidious delicacy, from the common 
transactions of life ; and contract a morbid sensibility of feeling, 
an excited irritability of temperament, so at variance with the 
equable character necessary for enabling us to maintain our just 
position in society, that we need scarcely wonder at the scorn 
which the mere matter-of-fact men of the world usually award 
to the possessors of genius. 

But should this be so ? Should these dark shades overspread 
the fair face of genius ? Should that faculty which, by com- 
mon consent, is deemed a particle of the Divine essence — should 
it be perverted by the erratic conduct of its possessors, and the 
gift become abortive from the inconsistency of the recipients ? 
Is it the necessary concomitant of .genius to be subjected to the 
infirmities it has been my melancholy task to depict? The 
answer is, emphatically, NO ! ! I would say of genius, in its 
extended sense, what a gifted poet has said of poetry : 

" It is a glorious gift, 
And should be thankfully and nobly used: 
Let it look up to Heaven." 

This should be the fervent aspiration of genius, and its con- 
sciousness of its true position. 

" Leave not our course to our unguided will ; 
Left to ourselves, all crime is possible ; 
And those avIio seemed the most removed from guilt, 
Have sunk the deepest" 



Public Faith the Basis of National Honor.— F. Ames. 

To expatiate on the value of public faith may pass with some 
men for declamation ; to such men I have nothing to say. To 
others I will urge — can any circumstance mark upon a people 
more turpitude and debasement ? Can anything tend more to 
make men think themselves mean, or degrade to a lower point 
their estimation of virtue and their standard of action ? 



182 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

It would not merely demoralize mankind ; it tends to break 
all the ligaments of society, to dissolve that mysterious charm 
which attracts individuals to the nation, and to inspire in its 
stead a repulsive sense of shame and disgust. 

What is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affection for the spot 
where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread 
entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener ? 
■No, sir ; this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars 
higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with 
all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest 
filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, 
because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, 
not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of 
our country's honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his 
own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He 
is willing to risk his life in its defense, and is conscious that he 
gains protection while he gives it. For what rights of a citizen 
will be deemed inviolable when a State renounces the principles 
that constitute their security ? Or, if his life should not be in- 
vaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the 
eyes of strangers and dishonored in his own ? Could he look 
with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent? 
The sense of having one would die within him ; he would blush 
for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly ; for it would 
be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native land. 



Human Progress.— Chapin. 

Let us clearly understand what is meant by Human Progress. 
It must be distinctly separated from the doctrine of Human Per- 
fectibility. That men in this world will ever be, in all respects, 
perfect, is one doctrine — and that men will pass from lower de- 
grees of excellence up to higher, and maintain their advantage, 
is another doctrine. This last is the doctrine of Human Pro- 
gress. That our age holds an amount of refinement and civiliza- 
tion that preceding ages did not have, seems evident. We may 
not see minutely how this operation of human progress goes on 
— we may not be able to trace the transfusion of the good and 
the true through every particle and member. But we see the 
grand result. 



HUMAN PEOGRESS. 183 

So the great ocean comes on imperceptibly. Men build their 
huts at the foot of some huge mountain, and till the green fields 
that spread out before them — thinking nothing so permanent. 
But, by and by, other men come that way, and the green fields 
are all gone. The summer fruit has long since been gathered. 
Where the husbandman found his wealth, the fisher draws his 
support — where the sickles whispered to the bending corn, the 
ships of war go sheeting by — and the old mountain has become 
a grey and wave -beaten crag, a landmark to the distant mari- 
ner, and a turret where the sea-bird screams. 

But this was accomplished imperceptibly. One generation may 
not have witnessed the advancement of the waters— another 
may have passed away without noting it ; but slowly they kept 
advancing. And by and by, all men saw it — saw the grand 
result, though they did not mark each successive operation. So 
with human progress. One age may scarcely observe it, and 
another may die without faith in it ; but we must take some dis- 
tant period that is not too closely blended with our time, and 
compare that with the present, and in the grand result we shall 
discover that there has been human progress. 

Still, some may say, "Yes, there has been progress, but not 
over the whole world — there have been salient points, but also 
retreating angles, and when you speak of human progress you 
must appeal to the world at large — say, has that advanced?" 
I answer, that in the world, somewhere, there has been a con- 
stant tendency to advancement. Even the dark times have been 
seasons of fruition — the middle ages nourished and prepared 
glorious elements of human reformation. If one nation has lost 
the thread of human advancement, another has taken it up — 
and so the work has gone forward ; if not in the race, as a 
whole, at any one time, yet in the race somewhere. 

But the race is fundamentally the same, and what may be 
predicated of a portion of mankind as belonging essentially to 
humanity, may be predicated of the whole ; and so in the ad- 
vancement of a portion of the race, the whole becomes hopeful. 
The capacity of the race for progress has been demonstrated. 
Is that capacity never to be gratified ? Though the period 
never has been that all the race were at the same time on the 
same level, who shall say that the time never will come ? that 
it never can come? Who shall say, so long as the capacity 
exists, how quick the transfusion of what is excellent in one 
portion may be made through the whole ? 

A victory over the formal Asiatic, grim and bloody as it is, 
may be one agent of such transfusion. A triumph of machinery 



184 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

may help to accomplish it. The steam-car may carry truth and 
light over drifted deserts and frozen mountains. The march of 
opinion, aided by circumstances, may penetrate to lands that 
never knew the commerce of Phoenicia, or the wisdom of 
Athens — where Alexander never ventured with his hosts, and 
where Caesar turned back his eagles. 

This is the main point — not universal progress, but human 
progress — not progress everywhere, but progress somewhere. 
Grant but that, and all humanity becomes hopeful — grant but 
the capacity, and the doctrine is practicable — let the law be in 
operation only at one point, still it is a law, and as such is to be 
heeded and acted upon. Old notions may die, but new notions 
shall spring up. Let the principle be at work, and no one can 
limit the result. * 

It may take a longer sweep of ages than have yet passed 
over mankind, to bring all nations to the same point of advance- 
ment ; some nations, now here and now there, may always be 
in advance of others, yet if the others advance also, the great 
law will be in operation. And no people shall have lived or 
died in vain. Into the deepest sepulchres of the Old and the 
Past a new life shall be kindled, showing that they have not 
waited so long for nothing. Dim Meroe will shout freedom 
from beyond the fountains of the Nile, and the stony lips of the 
Sphinx shall preach the Gospel ! 



Extension of the Republic.— Edward Everett. 

In the grand and steady progress of our country, the career 
of duty and usefulness will be run by all its children, under a 
constantly increasing excitement. The voice which, in the 
morning of life, shall awaken the patriotic sympathy of the land, 
will be echoed back by a community, incalculably swelled in all 
its proportions, before that voice shall be hushed in death. The 
writer, by whom the noble features of our scenery shall be 
sketched with a glowing pencil, the traits of our romantic early 
history gathered up with filial zeal, and the peculiarities of our 
character seized with delicate perception, cannot mount so en- 
tirelyand rapidly to success, but that ten years will add new 
millions to the numbers of his readers. The American states- 
man, the orator, whose voice is already heard in its supremacy 
from Florida to Maine, whose intellectual empire already ex- 



EXTENSION OF THE REPUBLIC. 185 

tends beyond the limits of Alexander's, has yet new states and 
new nations starting into being, the willing tributaries to his 
sway. 

The wilderness, which one year is impassable, is traversed 
the next by the caravans of the industrious emigrants, who go 
to follow the setting sun, with the language, the institutions, 
and the arts of civilized life. It is not the irruption of wild 
barbarians, sent to visit the wrath of God on a degenerate em- 
pire \ it is not the inroad of disciplined banditti, marshalled by 
the intrigues of ministers and kings. It is the human family, 
led out to possess its broad patrimony. The states and nations, 
which are springing up in the valley of the Missouri, are bound 
to us by the dearest ties of a common language, a common 
government, and a common descent. • 

Who can forget that this extension of our territorial limits is 
the extension of the empire of all we hold dear ; of our laws, 
of our character, of the memory of our ancestors, of the great 
achievements in our history ? Whithersoever the sons of these 
States shall wander, to southern or western climes, they will 
send back their hearts to the rocky shores, the battle-fields, and 
the intrepid councils of the Atlantic coast. These are placed 
beyond the reach of vicissitude. They have become already 
matter of history, of poetry, of eloquence : 

The love, where death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disavow." 

We are summoned to new energy and zeal by the high nature 
of the experiment we are appointed in Providence to make, and 
the grandeur of the theatre on which it is to be performed. 
When the Old World afforded no longer any hope, it pleased 
Heaven to open this last refuge of humanity. The attempt has 
begun, and is going on, far from foreign corruption, on the 
broadest scale, and under the most benignant prospects ; and it 
certainly rests with us to solve the great problem in human 
society, to settle, and that for ever, that momentous ques- 
tion — whether mankind can be trusted with a purely popular 
system ? One might almost think, without extravagance, that 
the departed wise and good of all places and times are looking 
down from their happy seats to witness what shall now be done 
by us ; that they who lavished their treasures and their blood 
of old, who labored and suffered, who spake and wrote, who 
fought and perished, in the one great cause of freedom and 
truth, are now hanging, from their orbs on high, over the last 



186 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

solemn experiment of humanity. As I have wandered over the 
spots, once the scene of their labors, and mused among the 
prostrate columns of their senate-houses and forums, I have 
seemed almost to hear a voice from the tombs of departed ages ; 
from the sepulchres of the nations which died before the sight. 
They exhort us, they adjure us to be faithful to our trust. They 
implore us, by the long trials of struggling humanity, by the 
blessed memory of the departed ; by the dear faith, which has 
been plighted, by pure hands, to the holy cause of truth and 
man ; by the awful secrets of the prison-houses where the sons 
of freedom have been immured ; by the noble heads which 
have been brought to the block ; by the wrecks of time, by the 
eloquent ruins of nations, they conjure us not to quench the 
light which is rising o$ the world. Greece cries to us, by the 
convulsed lips of her poisoned, dying Demosthenes ; and Rome 
pleads with us, in the mute persuasion of her mangled Tully. 



The Skylark.— James Hogg. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay, and loud, 

Ear in the downy cloud, 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying ? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. , 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moon and mountain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing away ! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is tlry dwelling-place — 
Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 



TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 187 

To an Egyptian Mummy,— Hok ace Smith. 

And thou hast walked about— how strange a story ! — 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago! 

When the Memnonium Was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 

Speak ! — for thou long enough hast acted dummy, 
Thou hast a tongue, come — let us hear its tune ! 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, mummy ! 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon — 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features ! 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx s fame ? — 

Was Cheops, or Cephrenes architect 
Of either pyramid that bears his name ? — 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? — 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason — and forbidden, 
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade : 

Then say, what secret melody was hidden 
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest ;— if so, my struggles 

Are vain — for priestcraft never owns its juggles ! 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass — 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat — 

Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass— 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch, at the great temple's dedication ! 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ? 

Por thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled: — 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great deluge still had left it green ! — 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent ! — Incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? Then keep thy vows ! 



188 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But, prithee, tell us something of thyself — 
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house : — 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 
What hast thou seen — what strange adventures numbered ? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended — 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations — 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis — 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold ! 
A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled : — 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? 
What was thy name and station, age and race I 

Statue of flesh ! — Immortal of the dead ! 



Imperishable type of 



evanescence 



Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 
And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 
Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue — that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our fame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 



Beauty,— 'Ralph W. Emerson. 

The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element, is 
essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which 
can be loved without effeminacy, is that which is found in com- 
bination with the human will, and never separate. Beauty is* 
the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is grace- 
ful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and 



BEAUTY. 189 

the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that 
the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every 
rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It 
is his, if he will. He may divest himself of it; he may creep 
into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do ; but 
he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion 
to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world 
into himself. " All those things for which men plough, build, 
or sail, obey virtue ;" said an ancient historian. " The winds and 
waves," said Gibbon, " are always on the side of the ablest 
navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of 
heaven. When a noble act is done — perchance in a scene 
of great natural beauty ; when Leonidas and his three hun- 
dred martyrs consume one day in dying, and the sun and 
moon come each and look at them once in the steep defile of 
Thermopylae ; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, 
under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a 
sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades ; 
are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene 
to the beauty of the deed ? When the bark of Columbus 
nears the shore of America ; — before it, the beach lined with 
savages, fleeing out of all their huts of cane ; the sea behind ; 
and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, 
can we separate the man from the living picture ? Does not 
the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savan- 
nahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like 
air, and envelope great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was 
dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as 
the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried 
out to him, " You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., 
to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord 
Russel to be drawn in an open coach, through the principal 
streets of the city on his way to the scaffold. " But," to use 
the simple narrative of his biographer, "the multitude imagined 
they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private 
places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems 
at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its 
candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only 
let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she fol- 
low his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of 
grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only 
let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the 
picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and 
makes the central figure of the visible sphere. 



190 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Science and Literature of America.— Judge Story. 

To us, Americans, nothing indeed can or ought to be indiffer- 
ent, that respects the cause of science and literature. We have 
taken a stand among the nations of the earth, and have suc- 
cessfully asserted our claim to political equality. We possess 
an enviable elevation, so far as concerns the structure of our 
government, our political policy, and the moral energy of our 
institutions. If we are not without rivals in these respects, we 
are scarcely behind any, even in the general estimate of foreign 
nations themselves. But our claims are far more extensive. 
We assert an equality of voice and vote in the republic of 
letters, and assume for ourselves the right to decide on the 
merits of others, as well as to vindicate our own. These are 
lofty pretensions, which are never conceded without proofs, and 
are severely scrutinized, and slowly admitted by the grave 
judges in the tribunal of letters. We have not placed ourselves 
as humble aspirants, seeking our way to higher rewards under 
the guardianship of experienced guides. We ask admission 
into the temple of fame, as joint heirs of the inheritance, capable 
in the manhood of our strength of maintaining our title. We 
contend for prizes with nations whose intellectual glory has re- 
ceived the homage of centuries. France, Italy, Germany, Eng- 
land, can point to the past for monuments of their genius and 
skill, and to the present with the undismayed confidence of 
veterans. It is not for us to retire from the ground which we 
have chosen to occupy, nor to shut our eyes against the diffi- 
culties of maintaining it. It is not by a few vain boasts, or 
vainer self-complacency, or rash daring, that we are to win our 
way to the first literary distinction. We must do as others 
have done before us. We must serve in the hard school of 
discipline ; we must invigorate our powers by the studies of 
other times. We must guide our footsteps by those stars which 
have shone, and still continue to shine, with inextinguishable 
light in the firmament of learning. Nor have we any reason 
for despondency. There is that in American character which 
has never yet been found unequal to its purpose. There is that 
in American enterprise, which shrinks not, and faints not, and 
fails not in its labors. We may say with honest pride — 

" Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, 
And souls are ripened in our northern sky." 



ARISTOCRACY. 191 

We may not then shrink from a rigorous examination of our 
own deficiencies in science and literature. If we have but a 
just sense of our wants, we have gained half the victory. If 
we but face our difficulties, they will fly before us. Let us not 
discredit our just honors by exaggerating little attainments. 
There are those in other countries who can keenly search out, 
and boldly expose every false pretension. There are those in 
our own country who would scorn a reputation ill founded in 
fact, and ill sustained by examples. We have solid claims upon 
the affection and respect of mankind. Let us not jeopard them 
by a false shame, or an ostentatious pride. The growth of two 
hundred years is healthy, lofty, expansive. The roots have 
shot deep and far ; the branches are strong and broad. I trust 
that many, many centuries to come will witness the increase 
and vigor of the stock. Never, never may any of our posterity 
have just occasion to speak of our country in the expressive- 
ness of Indian rhetoric — " It is an aged hemlock ; it is dead at 
the top." 



Aristocracy.— M*s. Kirkland. 

The great ones of the earth might learn many a lesson from 
the little. What has a certain dignity on a comparatively large 
scale, is so simply laughable when it is seen in miniature, (and, 
I unlike most other things, perhaps, its real features are better 
! distinguished in the small,) that it must be wholesome to observe 
how what we love appears in those whom we do not admire. 
I The monkey and the magpie are imitators ; and when the one 
j! makes a thousand superfluous bows and grimaces, and the other 
hoards what can be of no possible use to him, we may, even in 
I those, see a far-off reflex of certain things prevalent among our- 
selves. Next in order come little children ; and the boy will put 
a napkin about his neck for a cravat, and the girl supply her 
ideal of a veil by pinning a pocket-handkerchief to her bonnet, 
while we laugh at the self-deception, and fancy that we value 
only realities. But what affords us most amusement, is the 
awkward attempt of the rustic to copy the airs and graces 
which have caught his fancy as he saw them exhibited in town ; 
or, still more naturally, those which have been displayed on 



192 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

purpose to dazzle him, during the stay of some " mould of fash- 
ion" in the country. How exquisitely funny are his efforts and 
their failure ! How the true hugs himself in full belief that the 
gulf between himself and the pseudo is impassable ! Little 
dreams he that his own ill-directed longings after the distingue 
in air or in position seem to some more fortunate individual as 
far from being accomplished as those of the rustic to himself, 
while both, perhaps, owe more to the tailor and milliner than to 
any more dignified source. 

The country imitates the town most sadly ; and it is really 
melancholy, to one who loves his kind, to see how obstinately 
people will throw away real comforts and advantages in the 
vain chase of what does not belong to solitude and freedom. 
The restraints necessary to city life are there compensated by 
many advantages resulting from close contact with others; 
while in the country those restraints are simply odious, curtail- 
ing the real advantages of the position, yet entirely incapable 
of substituting those which belong to the city. 

Real refinement is as possible in the one case as in the other. 
Would it were more heartily sought in both ! 

In the palmy days of alchemy, when the nature and powers 
of occult and intangible agents were deemed worthy the study 
of princes, the art of sealing hermetically was an essential one ; 
hence many a precious elixir would necessarily become unman- 
ageable and useless if allowed to wander in the common air. 
This art seems now to be among the lost, in spite of the anxious 
efforts of cunning projectors ; and at the present time a subtle 
essence, more volatile than the elixir of life — more valuable tha: 
the philosopher's stone — an invisible and imponderable but most 
real agent, long bottled up for the enjoyment of a privileged 
few, has burst its bounds and become part of our daily atmos- 
phere. Some mighty sages still contrive to retain within their 
own keeping important portions of this tre asure ; but there are 
regions of the earth where it is open to all, and, in the opinion 
of the exclusive, sadly desecrated by having become an object of 
pursuit to the vulgar. "Where it is still under a degree of control, 
the seal of Hermes is variously represented. In Russia, the su- 
preme will of the autocrat regulates the distribution of the "airy 
good :" in other parts of the Continent, ancient prescription has 
still the power to keep it within its due reservoirs. In France, 
its uses and advantages have been publicly denied and repudi- 
ated ; yet it is said that practically everybody stands open- 
mouthed where it is known to be floating in the air, hoping to 
inhale as much as possible without the odium of seeming to 



: 



ARISTOCRACY. X93 

grasp at what has been decided to be worthless. In England 
we are told that the precious fluid is still kept with great solici- 
tude in a dingy receptacle called Almack's, watched ever by cer- 
tain priestesses, who are self-consecrated to an attendance more 
onerous than that required for maintaining the Vestal fire, and 
who yet receive neither respect nor gratitude for their pains. 
Indeed, the fine spirit has become so much diffused in England 
that it reminds us of the riddle of Mother Goose — 

A house-full, a hole-full, 
But can't catch a bowl-full. 

If such efforts in England amuse us, what shall we say of the 
agonized pursuit everywhere observable in our own country ? 
We have denounced the fascinating gas as poisonous — we have 
staked our very existence upon excluding it from the land, yet 
it is the breath of our nostrils — the soul of our being — the one 
thing needful — for which we are willing to expend mind, body, 
and estate. We exclaim against its operations in other lands, 
but it is the purchaser decrying to others the treasure he would 
appropriate to himself. We take much credit to ourselves for 
having renounced what all the rest of the world were pursuing, 
but our practice is like that of the toper who had forsworn 
drink, yet afterward perceiving the contents of a brother sinner's 
bottle to be spilt, could not forbear falling on his knees to drink 
the liquor from the frozen hoof- prints in the road ; or that other 
votary of indulgence, who, having once had the courage to pass 
a tavern, afterward turned back that he might " treat resolu- 
tion." We have satisfied our consciences by theory; we feel 
no compunction in making our practice just like that of the rest 
of the world. 

This is true of the country generally ; but it is nowhere so 
strikingly evident as in these remote regions which the noise of 
the great world reaches but at the rebound — as it were in faint 
echoes; and these very echoes changed from their original, as 
Paddy asserts of those of the Lake of Killarney. It would seem 
that our elixir vita — a strange anomaly — becomes stronger by 
dilution. Its power of fascination, at least, increases as it re- 
cedes from the fountain head. The Russian noble may refuse 
to let his daughter smile upon a suitor whose breast is not cov- 
ered with orders ; the German dignitary may insist on sixteen 
quarterings ; the well-born Englishman may sigh to be admitted 
into a coterie not half as respectable or as elegant as the one 
9 



194 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

to which he belongs — all this is consistent enough ; but we 
must laugh when we see the managers of a city ball admit the 
daughters of wholesale merchants, while they exclude the fami- 
lies of merchants who sell at retail ; and still more when we 
come to the "new country," and observe that Mrs. Penniman, 
who takes in sewing, utterly refuses to associate with her neigh- 
bor Mrs. Clapp, because she goes out sewing by the day ; and 
that our friend Mr. Diggins, being raised a step in the world by 
the last election, signs all his letters of friendship, " D. Diggins, 
Sheriff." 



Seven Ages of Man.— Shakspeare; 



All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms ; 
And then, the whining sehool-boy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school : And then, the lover ; 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: Then, a soldier; 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 

Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, the justice ; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal eut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances, 
And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 



THE THEATRE. 195 

The Theatre.— Chaining. 

In its present state, the theatre deserves no encouragement. 
In saying this, I do not say that the amusement is radically, 
essentially evil. I can conceive of a theatre which would be 
the noblest of all amusements, and would take a high rank 
among the means of refining the taste and elevating the char- 
acter of a people. The deep woes, the mighty and terrible 
passions, and the sublime emotions of genuine tragedy, are 
fitted to thrill us with human sympathies, with profound interest 
in our nature, with a consciousness of what man can do and 
dare and suffer, with an awed feeling of the fearful mysteries 
of life. The soul of the spectator is stirred from its depths ; 
and the lethargy in which so many live is roused, at least for 
a time, to some intenseness of thought and sensibility. The 
drama answers a high purpose, when it places us in the pres- 
ence of the most solemn and striking events of human history, 
and lays bare to us the human heart in its most powerful, 
appalling, glorious workings. But how little does the theatre 
accomplish its end ! How often is it disgraced by monstrous 
distortions of human nature, and still more disgraced by pro- 
faneness, coarseness, indelicacy, and low wit, such as no woman, 
worthy of the name, can hear without a blush, and no man can 
take pleasure in without self-degradation. That the theatre 
should be suffered to exist in its present degradation is a re- 
proach to the community. Were it to fall, a better drama 
might spring up in its place. In the mean time, is there not an 
amusement, having an affinity with the drama, which might be 
usefully introduced among us ? I mean Recitation. A work 
of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and 
powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification. 
Were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now 
insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked 
up to their excellence and power. It is not easy to conceive of 
a more effectual way of spreading a refined taste through a 
community. The drama undoubtedly appeals more strongly to 
the passions than recitation ; but the latter brings out the mean- 
ing of the author more. Shakspeare, worthily recited, would 
be better understood than on the stage. Then, in recitation, we 
escape the weariness of listening to poor performers, who, after 
all, fill up most of the time at the theatre. Recitation, suffi- 
ciently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well as 
of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present in- 



196 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

tellectual progress, as much as the drama falls below it. Should 
this exhibition be introduced among us successfully, the result 
would be, that the power of recitation would be extensively 
called forth, and this would be added to our social and domestic 
pleasures. 



American Patriotism,— Webster. 

Who is there among us, that, should he find himself on any 
spot of the earth where human beings exist, and where the 
existence of other nations is known, would not be proud to say, 
I am an American ? I am a countryman of Washington ? I 
am a citizen of that republic which, although it has suddenly 
sprung up, yet there are none on the globe who have ears to 
hear, and have not heard of it — who have eyes to see, and have 
not read of it — who know anything, and yet do not know of its 
existence and its glory ? And, gentlemen, let me now reverse 
the picture. Let me ask, who there is among us, if he were to 
be found to-morrow in one of the civilized countries of Europe, 
and were there to learn that this goodly form of government 
had been overthrown — that the United States were no longer 
united — that a death-blow had been struck upon their bond of 
union — that they themselves had destroyed their chief good 
and their chief honor — who is there whose heart would not sink 
within him ? Who is there who would not cover his face for 
very shame ? 

At this very moment, gentlemen, our country is a general 
refuge for the distressed and the persecuted of other nations. 
Whoever is in affliction from political occurrences in his own 
country, looks here for shelter. Whether he be republican, 
flying from the oppression of thrones — or whether he be mon- 
arch or monarchist, flying from thrones that crumble and fall 
under or around him — he feels equal assurance that, if he get 
foothold on our soil, his person is safe, and his rights will be 
respected. 

And who will venture to say that in any government, now 
existing in the world, there is greater security for persons or 
property than in that of the United States ? We have tried 
these popular institutions in times of great excitement and com- 
motion ; and they have stood substantially firm and steady, 
while the fountains of the great political deep have been else- 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 197 

where broken up ; while thrones, resting on ages of prescrip- 
tion, have tottered and fallen ; and while, in other countries, the 
earthquake of unrestrained popular commotion has swallowed 
up all law, and all liberty, and all right together. Our govern- 
ment has been tried in peace, and it has been tried in war ; and 
has proved itself fit for both. It has been assailed from with- 
out, and it has successfully resisted the shock ; it has been dis- 
turbed within, and it has effectually quieted the disturbance. 
It can stand trial — it can stand assault — it can stand adver- 
sity — it can stand everything but the marring of its own 
beauty, and the weakening of its own strength. It can stand 
everything but the effects of our own rashness and our own 
folly. It can stand everything but disorganization, disunion, 
and nullification. 



Trial of Warren Hastings.— Macaulay. 

The preparations for the trial had proceeded rapidly; 
and on the 13th of February, 1788, the sittings of the court 
commenced. There have been spectacles more dazzling to the 
eye, more gorgeous with jewelry and cloth of gold, more 
attractive to grown-up children, than that which was then 
exhibited at Westminster ; but, perhaps, there never was a 
spectacle so well calculated to strike a highly cultivated, a 
a reflecting, an imaginative mind. All the various kinds of in- 
terest which belong to the near and to the distant, to the pre- 
sent and to the past, were collected on one spot and in one 
hour. All the talents and all the accomplishments which are 
developed by liberty and civilization were now displayed, with 
every advantage that could be derived both from co-operation 
and from contrast. Every step in the proceedings carried the 
mind either backward, through many troubled centuries, to the 
days when the foundations of the constitution were laid ; or far 
away, over boundless seas and deserts, to dusky nations living 
under strange stars, worshipping strange gods, and writing 
strange characters from right to left. The High Court of Par- 
liament was to sit, according to forms handed down from the 
days of the Plantagenets, on an Englishman accused of exer- 
cising tyranny over the lord of the holy city of Benares, and 
the ladies of the princely house of Oude. 



198 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great hall 
of William Rufus ; the hall which had resounded with accla- 
mations at the inauguration of thirty kings ; the hall which had 
witnessed the just sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of 
Somers ; the hall where the eloquence of Strafford had for a 
moment awed and melted a victorious party inflamed with just 
resentment ; the hall where Charles had confronted the High 
Court of Justice with the placid courage which has half re- 
deemed his fame. Neither military nor civil pomp was wanting. 
The avenues were lined with grenadiers. The streets were kept 
clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in gold and ermine, were 
marshalled by the heralds under Garter King-at-Arms. The 
judges, in their vestments of state, attended to give advice on 
points of law. Near a hundred and seventy Lords, three- 
fourths of the Upper House, as the Upper House then was, 
walked in solemn order from their usual place of assembling to 
the tribunal. The junior baron present led the way — Lord 
Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable defense of 
Gibraltar against the fleets and armies of France and Spain. 
The long procession was closed by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl 
Marshal of the realm, by the great dignitaries, and by the 
brothers and sons of the king. Last of all came the Prince of 
Wales, conspicuous by his fine person and noble bearing. The 
gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long galleries 
were crowded by such an audience as has rarely excited the 
fears or the emulation of an orator. There were gathered to- 
gether, from all parts of a great, free, enlightened, and pros- 
perous realm, grace and female loveliness, wit and learning, the 
representatives of every science and of every art. There were 
seated around the queen the fair -haired young daughters of the 
house of Brunswick. There the ambassadors of great kings 
and commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle which 
no other country in the world could present. There Siddons, 
in the prime of her majestic beauty, looked with emotion on a 
scene surpassing all the imitations of the stage. There the 
historian of the Roman Empire thought of the days when 
Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres ; and when, 
before a senate which had still some show of freedom, Tacitus 
thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, 
side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the 
age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel which 
has preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers 
and statesmen, and the sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. 
It had induced Parr to suspend his labors in that dark and 



TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS. 199 

profound mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of 
erudition — a treasure too often buried in the earth, too often 
paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostentation; but still 
precious, massive, and splendid. There appeared the volup- 
tuous charms of her to whom the heir of the throne had in 
secret plighted his faith. There, too, was she, the beautiful 
mother of a beautiful race, the Saint Cecilia, whose delicate 
features, lighted up by love and music, art has rescued from 
the common decay. There were the members of that brilliant 
society which quoted, criticised, and exchanged repartees, under 
the rich peacock hangings of Mrs. Montague. And there the 
ladies, whose lips, more persuasive than those of Fox himself, 
had carried the Westminster election against palace and treasury, 
shone round Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. 

The Sergeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced to the 
bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed not unworthy 
of that great presence. 

The charges, and the answers of Hastings, were first read. 
This ceremony occupied two whole days, and was rendered less 
tedious than it would otherwise have been, by the silver voice 
and just emphasis of Cowper, the clerk of the court, a near 
relation of the amiable poet. On the third day Burke rose. 
Four sittings of the court were occupied by his opening speech, 
which was intended to be a general introduction to all the 
charges. With an exuberance of thought and a splendor of 
diction which more than satisfied the highly raised expectation 
of the audience, he described the character and institutions of 
the natives of India ; recounted the circumstances in which the 
Asiatic empire of Britain had originated ; and set forth the con- 
stitution of the Company and of the English Presidencies. 
Having thus attempted to communicate to his hearers an idea 
of Eastern society, as vivid as that which existed in his own 
mind, he proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings, 
as systematically conducted in defiance of morality and publie 
law. The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted ex- 
pressions of unwonted admiration even from the stern and hos- 
tile Chancellor ; and, for a moment, seemed to pierce even the 
resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in the galleries, 
unaccustomed to such displays of eloquence, excited by the 
solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps not unwilling to display 
their taste and sensibility, were in a state of uncontrollable emo- 
tion. Handkerchiefs were pulled out; smelling-bottles were 
handed round ; hysterical sobs and screams were heard ; and 
Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator 



200 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish oak 
resounded — " Therefore," said he, " hath it with all confidence 
been ordered by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach 
Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I impeach 
him in the name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose 
trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the 
English nation, whose ancient honor he has sullied. I impeach 
him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has 
trodden under foot, and whose country he has turned into a 
desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name 
of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every 
rank, I impeach the common enemy and oppressor of all." 



God's first Temples.— Bryant. 

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 

And spread the roof above them — ere he framed 

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 

The sound of anthems — in the darkling wood, 

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 

And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 

And supplication. For his simple heart 

Might not resist the sacred influences, 

That, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, 

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him , and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 

Should we, in the world's riper years, negleet 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 



GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. 201 

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 

Among their branches, till at last they stood, 

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 

Pit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 

Communion with his Maker. Here are seen 

ISTo traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 

Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 

Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show 

The boast of our vain race to change the form 

Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

That run along the summits of these trees 

In music ; thou art in the cooler breath, 

That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 

Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 

The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 

Here is continual worship ; nature, here, 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, 

Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots 

Of half the mighty forests, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem 

Almost annihilated — not a prince, 

In all the proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he , 

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me, when I thinK 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works, I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die : but see, again, 
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
9* 



202 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall he. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself 
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men, who hid themselves 

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 

The generation born with them, nor seemed 

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 

Around them ; and there have been holy men, 

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 

But let me often to these solitudes 

Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure 

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, 

And tremble, and are still. God ! when thou 

Dost scare the world with tempest, set on fire 

The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 

"With all the waters of the firmament, 

The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, 

And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 

Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself 

Upon the continent, and overwhelms 

Its cities ; who forgets not, at the sight 

Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face, 

Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath 

Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 

"Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 

In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 

And, to the beautiful order of thy works, 

Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



Vision of Belshazzar.— Byron. 

The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps thronged the hall ! 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deemed divine- — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 



THE STUDENT. 203 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand ; 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand • 

Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless waxed his look, 

And tremulous his voice. 
* Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth," 

Ohaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night—* 

The morrow proved it true, 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom passed away, 
He, in the balance weighed, 

Is light and worthless clay, 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone : 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ■!'- 



The Student* — Elizabeth B. Barrett. 

" My midnight lamp is weary as my soul — 
And, being unim mortal, has gone out ! 
And now, alone, yon moony lamp of heaven— 
Which God lit, and not man — illuminates 



204 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

These volumes, others wrote in weariness — 
As I have read them ; and this cheek and brow, 
Whose paleness, burned in with heats of thought, 
Would make an angel smile, to see how ill 
Clay, thrust from Paradise, consorts with mind— 
If «angels could, like men, smile bitterly ! 

w Yet must my brow be paler ! I have vowed 
To clip it with the crown which cannot fade, 
When it is faded. Not in vain ye cry, 
Oh ! glorious voices, that survive the tongues 
From whence was drawn your separate sovereignty, 
For I would reign beside you ! I would melt 
The golden treasures of my health and life 
Into that name ! My lips are vowed apart 
Prom cheerful words — mine ears from pleasant sounds 
Mine eyes from sights G-od made so beautiful — 
My feet from wanderings under shady trees — 
My hands from clasping of dear-loving friends— 
My very heart from feelings which move soft ! 
Vowed am I from the day's delightsomeness, 
And dreams of night ! — and when the house is dumb 
In sleep — which is the pause ? twixt life and life — 
I live and waken thus ; and pluck away 
Slumber's sleek poppies from my pained lids — 
Goading my mind, with thongs wrought by herself, 
To toil and struggle along this mountain-path — 
Which hath no mountain-airs— until she sweat, 
Like Adam's brow — and gasp, and rend away, 
In agony, her garment of the flesh !" 

And so, his midnight lamp was lit anew — 

And burned till morning. But his lamp of life 

Till morning burned not ! He was found embraced, 

Close, cold and stiff, by death's compelling sleep ; 

His breast and brow supported on a page 

Charactered over with a praise of fame — 

Of its divineness and beatitude — . 

Words which had often caused that heart to throb, 

That cheek to burn ; though silent lay they, now — 

Without a single beating in the pulse, 

And all the fever gone ! 

I saw a bay 
Spring, verdant, from a newly-fashioned grave 
The grass upon the grave was verdanter — 
That being watered by the eyes of One 
Who bore not to look up toward the tree \ 
Others looked on it — some with passing glance^ 
Because the light wind stirred in its leaves ; 
And some, with sudden lighting of the soul, 
In admiration's ecstasy ! — ay ! some 
Did wag their heads like oracles, and say, 
" 'Tis very well !" But none reraemberld 



DIGNITY OF MISSIONS. 205 

The heart which housed the root — except that One 
"Whose sight was lost in weeping ! 

Is it thus, 
Ambition ! — idol of the intellect ? 
Shall we drink aconite, alone to use 
Thy golden bowl — and sleep ourselves to death, 
To dream thy visions about life ? Oh, power ! 
That art a very feebleness ! — before 
Thy clayey feet we bend our knees of clay, 
And round thy senseless brow bind diadems, 
With paralytic hands — and shout " A god !" 
With voices mortal-hoarse ! Who can discern 
The infirmities they share in ? Being blind, 
We cannot see thy blindness : being weak, 
We cannot feel thy weakness : being low, 
We cannot mete thy baseness : being unwise, 
We cannot understand thine idiocy ! 



The Moral Dignity of Missionary Enterprise* 

President Watland. 

Our object will not have been accomplished till the toma- 
hawk shall be buried for ever, and the tree of peace spread its 
broad branches from the Atlantic to the Pacific ; until a thou- 
sand smiling villages shall be reflected from the waves of the 
Missouri, and the distant valleys of the West echo with the song 
of the reaper; till the wilderness and the solitary place shall 
have been glad for us, and the desert has rejoiced and blos- 
somed as the rose. 

Our labors are not to cease, until the last slave-ship shall have 
visited the coast of Africa, and, the nations of Europe and 
America having long since redressed her aggravated wrongs, 
Ethiopia, from the Mediterranean to the Cape, shall have 
stretched forth her hand unto God. 

How changed will then be the face of Asia ! Bramins, and 
sooders, and castes, and shasters, will have passed away, like 
the mist which rolls up the mountain's side before the rising 
glories of a summer's morning, while the land on which it 
rested, shining forth in all its loveliness, shall, from its number- 
less habitations, send forth the high praises of God and the 
Lamb. The Hindoo mother will gaze upon her infant with the 
same tenderness which throbs in the breast of any one of you 



206 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

who now hears me, and the Hindoo son will pour into the 
wounded bosom of his widowed parent the oil of peace and 
consolation. 

In a word, point us to the loveliest village that smiles upon a 
Scottish or New England landscape, and compare it with the 
filthiness and brutality of a Caffrarian kraal, and we tell you, 
that our object is to render that Caffrarian kraal as happy and 
as gladsome as that Scottish or New England village. Point 
us to the spot on the face of the earth, where liberty is best 
understood and most perfectly enjoyed, where intellect shoots 
forth in its richest luxuriance, and where all the kindlier feelings 
of the heart are constantly seen in their most graceful exercise ; 
point us to the loveliest and happiest neighborhood in the world 
on which we dwell, and we tell you, that our object is to render 
this whole earth, with all its nations, and kindreds, and tongues, 
and people, as happy, nay happier than that neighborhood. 

We do believe, that God so loved the world, that he gave his 
only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not 
perish, but have everlasting life. Our object is to convey to 
those who are perishing the news of this salvation. It is to fur- 
nish every family upon the face of the whole earth with the 
word of God written in its own language, and to send to every 
neighborhood a preacher of the cross of Christ. Our object 
will not be accomplished until every idol temple shall have been 
utterly abolished, and a temple of Jehovah erected in its room ; 
until this earth, instead of being a theatre, on which immortal 
beings are preparing by crime for eternal condemnation, shall 
become one universal temple, in which the children of men are 
learning the anthems of the blessed above, and becoming meet 
to join the general assembly and church of the first-born, whose 
names are written in heaven. Our design will not be completed 
until 

"One song employs all nations, and all cry, 
' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ;' 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other; and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round." 

The object of the missionary enterprise embraces every child 
of Adam. It is vast as the race to whom its operations are of 
necessity limited. It would confer upon every individual on 
earth all that intellectual or moral cultivation can bestow. It 
would rescue the world from the indignation and wrath, tribula- 



A YOUTHFUL POET CONTEMPLATING NATURE. 207 

tion and anguish, reserved for every son of man that doeth evil, 
and give it a title to glory, honor, and immortality. You see, 
then, that our object is, not only to affect every individual of 
the species, but to affect him in the momentous extremes of 
infinite happiness and infinite woe. And now we ask, what ob- 
ject ever undertaken by man, can compare with this same desire 
of evangelizing the world ? Patriotism itself fades away before 
it, and acknowledges the supremacy of an enterprise, which 
seizes, with so strong a grasp, upon both the temporal and eter- 
nal destinies of the whole family of man. 

And now, my hearers, deliberately consider the nature of the 
missionary enterprise. Reflect upon the dignity of its object ; 
the high moral and intellectual powers which are to be called 
forth in its execution ; the simplicity, benevolence, and efficacy 
of the means by which all this is to be achieved ; and we ask 
you, Does not every other enterprise to which man ever put 
forth his strength, dwindle into insignificance before that of 
preaching Christ crucified to a lost and perishing world ? 



A youthful Poet contemplating Nature*— Wordsworth. 

For the growing youth, 
What soul was his, when from the naked top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, 
And in their silent faces could he read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form 
All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
His animal being : in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
A herdsman on the lonely mountain top, 



208 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
"Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
Oh then how beautiful, how bright appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving ; infinite ; 
There littleness was not; the least of things 
Seemed infinite ; and then his spirit shaped 
- Her prospects, nor did he believe — he saw. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired 
"Wisdom, which works through patience ; thence he learned, 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought, 
To look on nature with an humble heart, 
Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 



The Passions.— Collins. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined : 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had heard apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each — for Madness ruled the hour- 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid ; 

And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
Even at the sound himself had made. 



THE PASSIONS. 209 

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, 

In lightnings owned his secret stings : 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings. 

With woful measures, wan Despair — 

Low sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled ; 
A solemn, strange: and mingled air ; 

'Twas sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ! 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all her song. 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung — but with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose. 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; 

And, with a withering look, 

The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat. 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between. 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Tet still he kept his wild unaltered mien ; 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his heacL 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed : 

And, now, it courted Love ; now, raving called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 
And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
And, dashing soft, from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound. 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; 
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay — 
Round a holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace and lonely musing — 
In hollow murmurs died away. 



210 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ; 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial. 
He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 

Amid the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round — 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 



Alaric the Visigoth.— Edward Everett. 

Alatic stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the 
river Bnsentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might 
be interred. 

When I am dead, no pageant train 
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, 

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
Stain it with hypocritic tear ; 

For I will die as I did live, 

Nor take the boon I cannot give. 

Ye shall not raise a marble bust 

Upon the spot where I repose ; 
Ye shall not fawn before my dust, 

In hollow circumstance of woes ; 
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
Insult the clay that moulds beneath. 



ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. 211 

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 

Your monuments upon my breast, 
Nor yet within the common soil 

Lay down the wreck of power to rest ; 
Where man can boast that he has trod 
On him that was " the scourge of God." 

But ye the mountain stream shall turn, 

And lay its secret channel bare, 
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 

A resting-place for ever there : 
Then bid its everlasting springs 
Flow back upon the king of kings ; 
And never be the secret said, 
Until the deep give up his dead. 

My gold and silver ye shall fling 

Back to the clods, that gave them birth j 

The captured crowns of many a king, 
The ransom of a conquered earth : 

For, e'en though dead, will I control 

The trophies of the capitol. 

But when, beneath the mountain tide ; 

Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, 
Ye shall not rear upon its side 

Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; 
For long enough the world has shook 
Beneath the terrors of my look ; 
And, now that I have run my race, 
The astonished realms shall rest a space. 



My course was like a river 

And from the northern hills I burst, 
Across the world, in wrath to sweep, 

And where I went the spot was cursed, 
Nor blade of grass again was seen 
"Where Alaric and his hosts had been. 

See how their haughty barriers fail 
Beneath the terror of the Goth, 

Their iron-breasted legions quail 
Before my ruthless sabaoth, 

And low the queen of empires kneels, 

And grovels at my chariot- wheels. 

Not for myself did I ascend 

In judgment my triumphal car ; 

'Twas God alone on high did send 
The avenging Scythian to the war, 

To shake abroad, with iron hand, 

The appointed scourge of his command. 



212 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With iron hand that scourge I reared 
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
Destruction was the ship I steered, 

And vengeance sat upon the helm, 
When, launched in fury on the flood, 
I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 
• And, in the stream their hearts had spilt, 
Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 

Across the everlasting Alp 

I poured the torrent of my powers, 
And feeble Caesars shrieked for help, 

In vain, within their seven-hilled towers ; 
I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
That glittered in their diadem, 
And struck a darker, deeper die 
In the purple of their majesty, 
And bade my northern banners shine 
Upon the conquered Palatine. 

My course is run, my errand done ; 

I go to Him from whom I came ; 
But never yet shall set the sun 

Of glory that adorns my name ; 
And Koman hearts shall long be sick, 
When men shall think of Alaric. 

My course is run, my errand done ; 

But darker ministers of fate, 
Impatient, round the eternal throne, 

And in the caves of vengeance, wait ; 
And soon mankind shall blench away 
Before the name of Attila. 



National Compact— Govevmevr Morris. 

What but this compact, what but this specific part of it, 
can save us from ruin ? The judicial power, that fortress of the 
constitution, is now to be overturned. Yes, with honest Ajax, 
I would not only throw a shield before it, I would build around 
it a wall of brass. But I am too weak to defend the rampart 
against the host of assailants. I must call to my assistance 
their good sense, their patriotism and their virtue. Do not, 
gentlemen, suffer the rage of passion to drive reason from her 
seat. If this law be indeed bad, let us join to remedy the de- 
fects. Has it been passed in a manner which wounded your 



THE FUTURE DESTINY OF AMERICA. 213 

pride, or roused your resentment ? Have, I conjure you, the 
magnanimity to pardon that offense. I entreat, I implore you, 
to sacrifice those angry passions to the interests of our country. 
Pour out this pride of opinion on the altar of patriotism. Let 
it it be an expiatory libation for the weal of America. Do not, 
for God's sake, do not suffer that pride to plunge us all into the 
abyss of ruin. Indeed, indeed, it will be but of little, very little 
avail, whether one opinion or the other be right or wrong ; it 
will heal no wounds ; it will pay no debts ; it will rebuild no 
ravaged towns. Do not rely on that popular will, which has 
brought us frail beings into political existence. That opinion is 
but a changeable thing. It will soon change. This very mea- 
sure will change it. You will be deceived. Do not, I beseech 
you, in reliance on a foundation so frail, commit the dignit}^, the 
harmony, the existence of our nation to the wild wind. Trust 
not your treasure to the waves. Throw not your compass and 
your charts into the ocean. Do not believe that its billows will 
waft you into port. Indeed, indeed, you will be deceived. Cast 
not away this only anchor of our safety. I have seen its pro- 
gress. I know the difficulties through which it was obtained. 
I stand in the presence of x\lraighty God, and of the world ; 
and I declare to you, that if you lose this charter, never ! no, 
never will you get another ! We are now, perhaps, arrived 
at the parting point Here, even here, we stand on the brink 
of fate. Pause — pause — for Heaven's sake, pause ! ! 



The Future Destiny of America.— Q. s. Hillard. 

We may betray the trust reposed in us — we may most miser- 
ably defeat the fond hopes entertained of us. We may become 
the scorn of tyrants and the jest of slaves. From our fate, 
oppression may assume a bolder front of insolence, and its vic- 
tims sink into a darker despair. 

In that event, how unspeakable will be our disgrace — with 
what weight of mountains will the infamy lie upon our souls ! 
The gulf of our ruin will be as deep, as the elevation we might 
have attained is high. How wilt thou fall from heaven, O 
Lucifer, son of the morning ! Our beloved country with ashes 
for beauty, the golden cord of our union broken, its scattered 
fragments presenting every form of misrule, from the wildest 



214 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

anarchy to the most ruthless despotism, our " soil drenched 
with fraternal blood," the life of man stripped of its grace and 
dignity, the prizes of honor gone, and virtue divorced from half 
its encouragements and supports— these are gloomy pictures, 
•which I would not invite your imaginations to dwell upon, but 
only to glance at, for the sake of the warning lessons we may 
draw from them. 

Remember that we can have none of those consolations which 
sustain the patriot who mourns over the undeserved misfortunes 
of his country. Our Rome cannot fall, and we be innocent. 
No conqueror will chain us to the car of his triumph — no count- 
less swarm of Huns and Goths will bury the memorials and 
trophies of civilized life beneath a living tide of barbarism. 
Our own selfishness, our own neglect, our own passions, and our 
own vices will furnish the elements of our destruction. With 
our own hands we shall tear down the stately edifice of our 
glory. We shall die by self-inflicted wounds. 

But we will not talk of themes like these. We will not think 
of failure, dishonor, and despair. We will elevate our minds to 
the contemplation of our high duties, and the great trust com- 
mitted to us. We will resolve to lay the foundations of our 
prosperity on that rock of private virtue, which cannot be 
shaken until the laws of the moral world are reversed. From 
our own breasts shall flow the salient springs of national in- 
crease. Then our success, our happiness, our glory is inevitable. 
We may calmly smile at all the croakings of all the ravens, 
whether of native or foreign breed. 

The whole will not grow weak by the increase of its parts. 
Our growth will be like that of the mountain oak, which strikes 
its roots more deeply into the soil, and clings to it with a closer 
grasp, as its lofty head is exalted and its broad arms stretched 
out. The loud burst of joy and gratitude which this, the anni- 
versary of our independence, is breaking from the full hearts 
of a mighty people, will never cease to be heard. No chasms 
of sullen silence will interrupt its course— no discordant notes 
of sectional madness mar the general harmony. Year after 
year will increase it, by tributes from now unpeopled solitudes. 
The farthest West shall hear it and rejoice — the Oregon shall 
swell it with the voice of its waters — the Rocky Mountains 
shall fling back the glad sound from their snowy crests. 



LAZY PEOPLE. * 215 

Lazy People.— Mrs. Kirkland. 

You may see him, if you are an early riser, setting off, at 
peep of dawn, on a fishing expedition. He winds through the 
dreary woods, yawning portentously, and stretching as if he 
were emulous of the height of the hickory trees. Dextrously 
swaying his long rod, he follows the little stream till it is lost in 
the bosom of the woodland lake ; if unsuccessful from the bank, 
he seeks the frail skiff, which is the common property of labo- 
rious idlers like himself, and, pushing off shore, sits dreaming 
under the sun's wilting beams, until he has secured a supply 
for the day. Home again— an irregular meal at any time of 
day — and he goes to bed with the ague ; but he murmurs not, 
for fishing is not work 

Then come the whortleberries ; not the little, stunted, seedy 
things that grow on dry uplands and sandy commons ; but the 
produce of towering bushes in the plashy meadow ; generous, 
pulpy berries, covered with a fine bloom ; the " blae-berry" of 
Scotland ; a delicious fruit, though of humble reputation, and, 
it must be confessed, somewhat enhanced in value by the 
scarcity of the more refined productions of the garden. We 
scorn thee not, oh ! bloom- covered neighbor ! but gladly buy 
whole bushels of thy prolific family from the lounging Indian, or 
the still lazier white man. We must not condemn the gatherers 
of whortleberries, but it is a melancholy truth that they do not 
get rich. .... 

Baiting for wild bees beguiles the busy summer of work into 
many a wearisome tramp, many a night-watch, and many a lost 
day. This is a most fascinating chase, and sometimes excites 
the verjr spirit of gambling. The stake seems so small in com- 
parison with the possible prize — and gamblers and honey-seekers 
think all possible things probable — that some, who are scarcely 
ever tempted from regular business by any other disguise of 
idleness, cannot withstand a bee-hunt. A man whose arms and 
axe are all-sufficient to insure a comfortable livelihood for him- 
self and his family, is chopping, perhaps, in a thick wood, where 
the voices of the locust, the cricket, the grasshopper, and the 
wild bee, with their kindred, are the only sounds that reach his 
ear from sunrise till sunset. He feels lonely and listless ; and 
as noon draws on, he ceases from his hot toil, and, seating him- 
self on the tree which has just fallen beneath his axe, he takes 
out his lunch of bread and butter, and, musing as he eats, thinks 
how hard his fife is, and how much better it must be to have 



216 THE -PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

bread and butter without working for it. His eye wanders 
through the thick forest, and follows, with a feeling of envy, the 
winged inhabitants of the trees and flowers, till at length he 
notes among the singing throng some half dozen of bees. 

The lunch is soon dispatched; a honey tree must be near; 
and the chopper spends the remainder of the daylight in endeav- 
oring to discover it. But the cunning insects scent the hu- 
man robber, and will not approach their home until nightfall 
So our weary wight plods homeward laying plans for their 
destruction. 

The next morning's sun, as he peeps above the horizon, finds 
the bee-hunter burning honey-comb and old honey near the 
scene of yesterday's inkling. Stealthily does he watch his line 
of bait, and cautiously does he wait until the first glutton that 
finds himself sated with the luscious feast sets off in a " bee- 
line" — "like arrow darting from the bow" — blind' betrayer of 
his home, like the human inebriate. This is enough. The 
spoiler asks no more ; and the first moonlight night sees the 
rich hoard transferred to his cottage ; where it sometimes serves, 
almost unaided, as food for the whole family, until the last drop 
is consumed. One hundred and fifty pounds of honey are 
sometimes found in a single tree, and it must be owned the 
temptation is great; but the luxury is generally dearly pur- 
chased, if the whole cost and consequences be counted. To be 
content with what supplies the wants of the body for the pres- 
ent moment, is, after all, the characteristic rather of the brute 
than of the man ; and a family accustomed to this view of life 
will grow more and more idle and thriftless, until poverty and 
filth and even beggary lose all their terrors. It is almost 
proverbial among farmers that bee-hunters are always behind- 
hand. 



Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius.— Shakspeare. 

Enter Brutus and Cassius. 

Cas. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein, my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 



QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 217 

Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offense should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know, that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember ! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors, 
For so much trash, as may be grasped thus ? — ■ 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me, 
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is't possible ? 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? ay, more: Fret till your proud heart break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 
Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say, you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 

10 



218 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And it shall please me well : For mine own part 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said, an elder soldier, not a better : 
Did I say, better ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. "When Cesar lived he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love, 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats : 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me, as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : he was but a fool, 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart : 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius ! 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother : 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, 
To cast unto my teeth. O, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 



DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 21* 

And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 

Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 

If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 

Strike, as thou didst at Cesar ; for, I know, 

When thou didst hate him worse, thou lov'dst him better 

Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger: 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And stright is cold again. 

. Gas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. Brutus ! — 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Gas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you. 



Damon and Pythias,— William Peter. 

" Here, guards !" pale with fears Dionysius cries, 

" Here, guards, yon intruder arrest ! 
'Tis Damon — but hah ! speak, what means this disguise ? 

And the dagger, which gleams in thy vest ?" 
"'Twas to free," says the youth, " this dear land from its chains'!" 

" Free the land ! wretched fool, thou shall die for thy pains." 

" I am ready to die — I ask not to live — 

Yet three days of respite, perhaps, thou may'st give, 

For to-morrow, my sister will wed, 
And 'twould damp all her joy, were her brother not there ; 
Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials repair, 

Whilst a friend remains here in my stead." 

With a sneer on his brow, and a curse in his breast, 
" Thou shalt have," cries the tyrant, " shalt have thy request ; 
To thy sister's repair, on her nuptials attend, 



220 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Enjoy thy three days, but— mark well what I say — 
Return on the third ; if, beyond that fixed day, 
There be but one hour's, but one moment's delay, 
That delay shall be death to thy friend !" 

Then to Pythias he went ; and he told him his case : 
That true friend answered not, but, with instant embrace 

Consenting, rushed forth to be bound in his room ; 
And now, as if winged with new life from above, 
To his sister he flew, did his errand of love, 
And, ere a third morning had brightened the grove, 

Was returning with joy to his doom. 

But the heavens interpose, 

Stern the tempest arose, 
And, when the poor pilgrim arrived at the shore, 

Swollen to torrents, the rills 

Rushed in foam from the hills, 
And crash went the bridge in the whirlpool's wild roar. 

"Wildly gazing, despairing, half phrensied he stood ; 
Dark, dark were the skies, and dark was the flood, 

And still darker his lorn heart's emotion ; 
And he shouted for aid, but no aid was at hand, 
No boat ventured forth from the surf-ridden strand, 
And the waves sprang, like woods, o'er the lessening land, 

And the stream was becoming an ocean. 

Now with knees low to earth and with hands to the skies, 
" Still the storm, God of might, God of mercy !" he cries— 

" Oh hush with thy breath this loud sea ; 
The hours hurry by ; the sun glows on high ; 
And should he go down, and I reach not yon town, 

My friend — he must perish for me !" 

Yet the wrath of the torrent still went on increasing, 
And waves upon waves still dissolved without ceasing, 

And hour after hour hurried on; 
Then, by anguish impelled, hope and fear alike o'er, 
He, reckless, rushed into the water's deep roar ; 
Rose, sunk, struggled on, till, at length, the wished shore — 

Thanks to Heaven's outstretched hand — it is won ! — 

But new perils await him : scarce 'scaped from the flood, 
And intent on redeeming each moment's delay, 

As onward he sped, lo ! from out a dark wood, 
A band of fierce robbers encompassed his way. 

" What would ye ?" he cried, " save my life I have naught ; 

Nay, that is the king's" — Then swift, having caught 

A club from the nearest, and swinging it round 

With might more than man's, he laid three on the ground, 

Whilst the rest hurried off in dismay. 

But the noon's scorching flame 
Soon shoots through his frame, 
And he turns, faint and way-worn, to heaven with a sigh — 



DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 221 

" From the flood and the foe 

Thou'st redeemed me, and oh ! 
Thus, by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie, 
And leave him, the beloved of my bosom, to die 1" 

Scarce uttered the word, 

When startled he heard 
Purling sounds, sweet as silver's, fall fresh on his ear, 

And low a small rill 

Trickled down from the hill ! 
He heard and he saw, and, with joy drawing near, 
Laved his limbs, slaked his thirst, and renewed his career. 

And now the sun' s beams through the deep boughs are glowing, 
And rock, tree, and mountain their shadows are throwing, 

Huge and grim, o'er the meadow's bright bloom ; 
And two travellers are seen coming forth on their way, 
And, just as they pass, he hears one of them say — 

" 'Tis the hour that was fixed for his doom." 

Still, anguish gives strength to his wavering flight ; 
On he speeds ; and lo now ! in eve's reddening light 

The domes of far Syracuse blend ; 
There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray 
In his house,) crying : " Back ! not a moment's delay ; 

No cares will avail for thy friend. 

" No ; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb ; 

So think of preserving thine own. 
Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom ; 

Ere this, his brave spirit has flown. 
With confident soul he stood, hour after hour, 

Thy return never doubting to see ; 
No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower, 

Or shake his assurance in thee !" 

" And is it too late ? and cannot I save 

His dear life ? then, at least, let me share in his grave ! 

Yes, death shall unite us ! no tyrant shall say, 

That friend to his friend proved untrue ; he may slay, 

May torture, may mock at all mercy and ruth, 

But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth." 

'Tis sunset ; and Damon arrives at the gate, 

Sees the scaffold, and multitudes gazing below ; 

Already the victim is bared for his fate, 

Already the deathsman stands armed for the blow; 

When hark ! a wild voice, which is echoed around, 

"Stay!— 'tis I — it is Damon, for whom he was bound 1" 

And now they sink into each other's embrace, 

And are weeping for joy and despair. 
Not a soul, amongst thousands, but melts at their case ; 

Which swift to the monarch they bear; 



222 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Even he, too, is moved — feels for once as he ought — 

And commands, that they both to his throne shall be brought. 

Then— alternately gazing on each gallant youth 

With looks of awe, wonder, and shame — 
" Ye have conquered," he cries. " Yes, I see now that truth, 

That friendship, jls not a mere name. 
Go : you're free ; but, whilst life's dearest blessings you prove, 

Let one prayer of your monarch be heard, 
That — his past sins forgot — in this union of love 

And of virtue — you make him the third." 



Adventure*— Tupper. 

How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land, 

The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand, 

A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side, 

And for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride I 

Alone, alone — yet not alone, for God is with me there, 
The tender hand of Providence shall guide me everywhere, 
While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild, 
Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild ! 

Without a guide— yet guided well — young, buoyant, fresh, and free, 
Without a road — yet all the land a highway unto me — 
Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain, 
Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain ! 

Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start 

The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison or the hart, 

And then — with eager spur, to scour away, away ! 

Nor stop — until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay. 

Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my track, 
I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back ; 
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine, 
A touch upon the trigger — and his spotted skin is mine ! 

And then the hunter's savory fare at tranquil eventide — 

The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hillside ; 

My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the water-course, 

And plenty of sweet prairie -grass for thee, my noble horse. 

Hist ! hist ! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood ; 
I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood ! - 
The Grizzly Bear came rushing on — and, as he rushed, he fell ! 
Hie at him, dogs ! my rifle has done its duty well ! 



THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. 223 



w 



Hie at hhn, dogs ! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim ; 
The God of battles nerve a man to grapple now with him — 
And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife, 
Ha — ha ! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life ! 

Frantic struggles — welling blood — the strife is almost o'er — 
The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his gore- 
Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds— the blood of foes is sweet ; 
Here, gild withal your dewlapp'd throats, and wash your brawny feet ! 

So shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another day, 
Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in the way ; 
And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night, 
For lo ! the God of battles has helped us in the fight ! 



The Freedom of the Press*— Judge Story. 

One of the most striking characteristics of our age, and that 
indeed whieh has worked deepest in all the changes of its for- 
tunes and pursuits, is the general diffusion of knowledge. This 
is emphatically the age of reading. In other times, this was 
the privilege of the few ; in ours, it is the possession of the 
many. Learning once constituted the accomplishment of those 
in the higher orders of society, who had no relish for active 
employment, and of those whose monastic lives and religious 
profession sought to escape from the weariness of their common 
duties. Its progress may be said to have been gradually down- 
wards from the higher to the middle classes of society. It 
scarcely reached at all, in its joys or its sorrows, in its instruc- 
tions or its fantasies, the home of the peasant and artisan. It 
now radiates in all directions, and exerts its central force more 
in the middle than in any other class of society. The means 
of education were formerly within the reach of few. It required 
wealth to accumulate knowledge. The possession of a library- 
was no ordinary achievement. The learned leisure of a fellow- 
ship in some university seemed almost indispensable for any 
successful studies ; and the patronage of princes and courtiers 
was the narrow avenue of public favor. I speak of a period at 
little more than the distance of two centuries ; not of particular 
instances, but of the general cast and complexion of life. 

The principal cause of this change is to be found in the free- 
dom of the press, or rather in co-operating with the cheapness 



224 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

of the press. It has been aided, also, by the system of free 
schools wherever it has been established ; by that liberal com- 
merce which connects, by golden chains, the interests of man- 
kind ; by that spirit of inquiry which Protestantism awakened 
throughout Christian Europe ; and, above all, by those necessi- 
ties which have compelled even absolute monarchs to appeal to 
the patriotism and common sentiments of their subjects. Little 
more than a century has elapsed since the press, in England, 
was under the control of a licenser ; and within our own days 
only has it ceased to be a contempt, punishable by imprison- 
ment, to print the debates of Parliament. We all know how it 
still is on the continent of Europe. It either speaks in timid 
undertones, or echoes back the prescribed formularies of the 
government. The moment publicity is given to the aifairs of 
state, they excite everywhere an irresistible interest. If discus- 
sion be permitted, it will soon be necessary to enlist talents to 
defend, as well as talents to devise, measures. The daily press 
first instructed men in their wants, and soon found that the 
eagerness of curiosity outstripped the power of gratifying it. 
No man can now doubt the fact that, wherever the press is free, 
it will emancipate the people ; wherever knowledge circulates 
unrestrained, it is no longer safe to oppress ; wherever public 
opinion is enlightened, it nourishes an independent, masculine, 
and healthful spirit. If Faustus were now living, he might ex- 
claim, with all the enthusiasm of Archimedes, and with a far 
nearer approach to the truth, Give me where I may place a 
free press, and I will shake the world. 



Highland Snow- Storm,— -Professor Wilson. 

These huts belonged to brothers; and each had an only 
child, a son and a daughter, born on the same day, and now 
blooming on the verge of youth. A year ago, and they were 
but mere children ; but what wondrous growth of frame and 
spirit does nature at that season of life often present before our 
eyes ! So that we almost see the very change going on between 
morn and morn, and feel that these objects of our affection are 
daily brought closer to ourselves, by partaking daily more and 
more in all our most sacred thoughts, in our cares and in our 
duties, and in knowledge of the sorrows as well as the joys of 



HIGHLAND SNOW-STORM. 225 

our common lot. Thus had these cousins grown up before their 
parents' eyes ; Flora Macdonald — a name hallowed of yore — 
the fairest, and Ranald Cameron, the boldest of all the living 
flowers in Glenco and Glencreran. It was now their seven- 
teenth birthday, and never had a winter sun smiled more 
serenely over a hush of snow. Flora, it had been agreed on, 
was to pass that day in Glencreran, and Ranald to meet her 
among the mountains, that he might bring her down the many 
precipitous passes to his parent's hut. It was the middle of 
February, and the snow had lain for weeks with all its drifts 
unchanged, so calm had been the weather, and so continued the 
frost. At the same hour, known by horologe on the clifi 
touched by the finger of dawn, the happy creatures left each 
their own glen, and mile after mile of the smooth surface glided 
away past their feet, almost as the quiet water glides by the 
little boat that in favoring breezes walks merrily along the sea. 
And soon they met at the trysting-place — a bank of birch-trees 
beneath a cliff that takes its name from the Eagles. 

On their meeting, seemed not to them the whole of nature 
suddenly inspired with joy and beauty ? Insects unheard by 
them before, hummed and glittered in the air ; from tree-roots, 
where the snow was tkin, little flowers, or herbs flower-like, now 
for the first time were seen looking out as if alive ; the trees 
themselves seemed budding as if it were already spring ; and 
rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song, a faint trill 
for a moment touched their ears, and the flutter of a wing, tell- 
ing them that somewhere near there was preparation for a nest. 
Deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills 
unreached by the frost ; and merry, thought they, was the 
music of these contented prisoners. Not summer's self, in its 
deepest green, so beautiful had ever been to them before, as 
now the mild white of winter; and as their eyes were lifted 
up to heaven, when had they ever seen before a sky of such 
perfect blue, a sun so gentle in its brightness, or altogether 
a week-day in any season so like a Sabbath in its stillness, so 
like a holy day in its' joy ! Lovers were they — although as yet 
they scarcely knew it ; for from love only could have come such 
bliss as now was theirs, a bliss that while it beautified was felt 
to come from the skies. 

Flora sang to Ranald many of her old songs to those wild 
Gaelic airs that sound like the sighing of winds among fractured 
cliffs, or the branches of storm-tossed trees when the subsiding 
tempest is about to let them rest. Monotonous music ! but irre- 
sistible over the heart it has once awakened and enthralled, so 
10* 



226 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sincere seems to be the mournfulness it breathes — a mournful- 
ness brooding on the same note that is at once its natural 
expression and its sweetest aliment — of which the singer never 
wearieth in her dream, while her heart all the time is haunted 
by all that is most piteous, by the faces of the dead in their 
paleness returning to the shades of life, only that once more 
they may pour from their fixed eyes those strange showers of 
unaccountable tears ! 

How merry were they between those mournful airs ! How 
Flora trembled to see her lover's burning brow and flashing 
eyes, as he told her tales of great battles fought in foreign lands, 
far across the sea ; tales which he had drunk in with greedy 
ears from the old heroes scattered all over Lochaber and Bade- 
noch, on the brink of the grave still garrulous of blood ! 

" The sun sat high in his meridian tower," 

but time had not been with the youthful lovers, and the blessed 
beings believed that 'twas but a little hour since beneath the 
Eagle Cliff they had met in the prime of the morn ! 

The boy starts to his feet, and his keen eye looks along the 
ready rifle ; for his sires had all been famous deer-stalkers, and 
the passion of the chase was hereditary in his blood. Lo ! a 
deer from Dalness, hound-driven or sullenly astray, slowly bear- 
ing his antlers up the glen, then stopping for a moment to snuff 
the air, and then away — away ! The rifle-shot rings dully from 
the scarce echoing snow- cliffs, and the animal leaps aloft, struck 
by a certain but not sudden death-wound. Oh ! for Fingal now 
to pull him down like a wolf! But laboring and lumbering 
heavily along, the snow spotted as he bounds with blood, the 
huge animal at last disappears round some rocks at the head of 
the glen. " Follow me, Flora !" the boy-hunter cries ; and 
flinging down their plaids, they turn their bright faces to the 
mountain, and away up the long glen after the stricken deer. 
Fleet was the mountain-girl , and Ranald, as he ever and anon 
looked back to wave her on, with pride admired her lightsome 
motion as she bounded along the snow. Redder and redder 
grew that snow — and more heavily trampled as they winded 
round the rocks. Yonder is the deer staggering up the moun- 
tain, not half a mile off; now standing at bay, as if before his 
swimming eyes came Fingal, the terror of the forest, whose howl 
was known to all the echoes, and quailed the herd while their 
antlers were yet afar off. " Rest, Flora ! rest ! while I fly to 
him with my rifle, and shoot him through the heart !" 



HIGHLAND SNOW-STORM. 22*7 

Up — up — up the interminable glen, that kept winding and 
winding round many a jutting promontory, and many a castel- 
lated cliff, the red-deer kept dragging his gore-oozing bulk, 
sometimes almost within, and then, for some hundreds of yards, 
just beyond rifle-shot ; while the boy, maddened by the chase, 
pressed forwards, now all alone, nor any more looking behind 
for Flora, who had entirely disappeared ; and thus he was hur- 
ried on for miles by the whirlwind of passion, till at last he 
struck the noble quarry, and down sank the antlers in the snow, 
while the air was spurned by the convulsive beatings of feet. 
Then leaped Ranald upon the red-deer like a beast of prey, and 
lifted up a look of triumph to the mountain-tops. 

Where is Flora? Her lover has forgotten her — and he is 
alone, nor knows it — he and the red-deer — an enormous animal 
- — fast stiffening in the frost of death. 

Some large flakes of snow are in the air, and they seem to 
waver and whirl, though an hour ago there was not a breath. 
Faster they fall and faster — the flakes are almost as large as 
leaves — and overhead, whence so suddenly has come that huge 
yellow cloud? " Flora, where are you? where are you, Flo- 
ra ?" and from the huge hide the boy leaps up, and sees that 
no Flora is at hand. But yonder is a moving speck far off upon 
the snow ! 'Tis she— 'tis she ; and again Ranald turns his 
eyes upon the quarry, and the heart of the hunter burns 
within him like a new-stirred fire. Shrill as the eagle's cry 
disturbed in his eyrie, he sends a shout down the glen ; and 
Flora, with cheeks pale and bright by fits, is at last at his side. 
Panting and speechless she stands, and then dizzily sinks on his 
breast. Her hair is ruffled by the wind that revives her, and 
her face all moistened by the snow-flakes, now not falling but 
driven ; for the day has undergone a dismal change, and all 
over the skies are now lowering savage symptoms of a fast- 
coming night-storm. 

Bare is poor Flora's head, and sadly drenched her hair, that 
an hour or two ago glittered in the sunshine. Her shivering 
frame misses now the warmth of the plaid, which almost no cold 
can penetrate, and which had kept the vital current flowing 
freely in many a bitter blast. What would the miserable boy 
give now for the coverings lying far away, which, in his foolish 
passion, he flung down to chase that fatal deer ! " Oh ! Flora ! 
if you would not fear to stay here by yourself, under the pro- 
tection of God — who surely will not forsake you — soon will I 
go and come from the place where our plaids are lying ; and 
under the shelter of the deer we may be able to outlive the 



228 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

hurricane — you wrapt up in them, and folded — my dearest 
sister — in my arms !" "I will go with you down the glen, Ra- 
nald !" and she left his breast — but, weak as a day-old lamb, 
tottered and sank down on the snow. The cold — intense as if 
the air were ice — had chilled her very heart, after the heat of 
that long race ; and it was manifest that here she must be for 
the night — to live or die. And the night seemed already come, 
so full was the lift of snow ; while the glimmer every moment 
became gloomier, as if the day were expiring long before its 
time. Howling at a distance down the glen was heard a sea- 
born tempest from the Linnhe-Loch, where now they both knew 
the tide was tumbling in, bringing with it sleet and snow-blasts 
from afar ; and from the opposite quarter of the sky, an inland 
tempest was raging to meet it, while every lesser glen had its 
own uproar, so that on all hands they were environed with 
death. 

"I will go — and, till I return, leave you with God." — " Go, 
Ranald !" and he went and came — as if he had been endowed 
with the raven's wings ! 

Miles away, and miles back had he flown — and an hour had 
not been with his going and coming — but what a dreary wretch- 
edness meanwhile had been hers ! She feared that she was 
dying — that the cold snow-storm was killing her — and that she 
would never more see Ranald, to say to him farewell. Soon as 
he was gone, all her courage had died. Alone, she feared 
death, and wept to think how hard jt was for one so young thus 
miserably to die. He came, and her whole being was changed. 
Folded up in both the plaids, she felt resigned. " Oh ! kiss me, 
kiss me, Ranald ; for your love, great as it is, is not as my love. 
You must never forget me, Ranald — when your poor Flora is 
dead." 

Religion with these two young creatures was as clear as the 
light of the Sabbath-day ; and their belief in heaven just the 
same as in earth. The will of God they thought of just as they 
thought of their parents' will ; and the same was their loving 
obedience to its decrees. If she was to die — supported now by 
the presence of her brother — Flora was utterly resigned; if she 
were to live, her heart imaged to itself the very forms of her 
grateful worship. But all at once she closed her eyes — ceased 
breathing — and, as the tempest howled and rumbled in the gloom 
that fell around them like blindness, Ranald almost sank down, 
thinking that she was dead. 

" Wretched sinner that I am — my wicked madness brought 
her here to die of cold !" And he smote his breast, and tore 



HIGHLAND SNOW-STORM. 229 

his hair, and feared to look up, lest the angry eye of God were 
looking on him through the storm. 

All at once, without speaking a word, Kanald lifted Flora in 
his arms, and walked away up the glen — here almost narrowed 
into a pass. Distraction gave him supernatural strength, and 
her weight seemed that of a child. Some walls of what had 
once been a house, he had suddenly remembered, were but a 
short way off — whether or not they had any roof, he had for- 
gotten ; but the thought even of such shelter seemed a thought 
of salvation. There it was — a snow-drift at the opening that 
had once been a door — snow up the holes once windows — the 
wood of the roof had been carried off for fuel, and the snow- 
flakes were falling in, as if they would soon fill up the inside of 
the ruin. The snow in front was all trampled as if by sheep ; 
and carrying in his burden under the low lintel, he saw the 
place was filled with a flock that had foreknown the hurricane, 
and that, all huddled together, looked on him as on the shep- 
herd come to see how they were faring in the storm. 

And a young shepherd he was, with a lamb apparently dying 
in his arms. All color, all motion, all breath seemed to be 
gone ; and yet something convinced his heart that she was yet 
alive. The ruined hut was roofless, but across an angle of the 
walls some pine-branches had been flung as a sort of shelter for 
the sheep or cattle that might repair thither in cruel weather — 
some pine-branches left by the wood-cutters who had felled the 
few trees that once stood at the very head of the glen. Into 
that corner the snow-drift had not yet forced its way, and he 
sat down there with Flora in the cherishing of his embrace, 
hoping that the warmth of his distracted heart might be felt by 
her who was as cold as a corpse. The chill air was somewhat 
softened by the breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the 
cutting wind blunted by the stones. It was a place in which it 
seemed possible that she might revive — miserable as it was with 
mire-mixed snow, and almost as cold as one supposes the 
grave. And she did revive, and under the half-open lids the 
dim blue appeared to be not yet life-deserted. It was yet but 
the afternoon — night-like though it was — and he thought, as he 
breathed upon her lips, that a faint red returned, and that they 
felt the kisses he dropped on them to drive death away. 

" Oh !. father, go seek for Ranald, for I dreamed to-night he 
was perishing in the snow !" — " Flora, fear not — God is with 
us." — "Wild swans, they say, are come to Loch-Phoil — let us 
go, Ranald, and see them — but no rifle — for why kill creatures 
said to be so beautiful ?" Over them where they lay, bended 



230 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

down the pine-branch roof, as if it would give way beneath the 
increasing weight ; but there it still hung, though the drift 
came over their feet and up to their knees, and seemed steal- 
ing upwards to be their shroud. " Oh ! I am overcome with 
drowsiness, and fain would be allowed to sleep. Who is dis- 
turbing me, and what noise is this in our house ?"— " Fear not, 
fear not, Flora — God is with us." — " Mother ! am I lying in 
your arms ? My father surely is not in the storm ! Oh ! I 
have had a most dreadful dream !" — and with such mutterings 
as these Flora relapsed again into that perilous sleep, which 
soon becomes that of death. 

Night itself came, but Flora and Ranald knew it not, and 
both lay now motionless in one snow-shroud. Many passions — 
though earth-born, heavenly all — pity, and grief, and love, and 
hope, and at last despair, had prostrated the strength they had 
so long supported ; and the brave boy — who had been for some 
time feeble as a very child after a fever— with a mind confused 
and wandering, and in its perplexities sore afraid of some name- 
less ill, had submitted to lay down his head beside his Flora's, 
and had soon become like her insensible to the night and all its 
storms ! 

Bright was the peat-fire in the hut of Flora's parents in Glen- 
co ; and they were among the happiest of the humble happy, 
blessing this the birthday of their blameless child. They thought 
of her singing her sweet songs by the fireside of the hut in 
Glencreran; and tender thoughts of her cousin Ranald were 
with them in their prayers. No warning came to their ears in 
the sugh or the howl ; for Fear it is that creates its own ghosts, 
and all its own ghost-like visitings, and they had seen their Flora 
in the meekness of the morning, setting forth on her way over 
the quiet mountains, like a fawn to play. Sometimes, too, 
Love, who starts at shadows as if they were of the grave, is 
strangely insensible to realities that might well inspire dismay. 
So was it now with the dwellers in the hut at the head of Glen- 
creran. Their Ranald had left them in the morning ; night had 
come, and he and Flora were not there ; but the day had been 
almost like a summer day, and in their infatuation they never 
doubted that the happy creatures had changed their minds, and 
that Flora had returned with him to Glenco. Ranald had 
laughingly said, that haply he might surprise the people in that 
glen by bringing back to them Flora on her birthday ; and strange 
though it afterwards seemed to her to be, that belief prevented 
one single fear from touching his mother's heart, and she and 
her husband that night lay down in untroubled sleep. 



HIGHLAND SNOW-STORM. 231 

And what could have been done for them, had they been 
told by some good or evil spirit that their children were in the 
clutches of such a night ? As well seek for a single bark in the 
middle of the misty main ! But the inland storm had been seen 
brewing among the mountains round King's House, and hut had 
communicated with . hut, though far apart in regions where the 
traveller sees no symptoms of human life. Down through the 
long cliff-pass of Mealanumy, between Buchael-Etive and the 
Black-Mount, towards the lone House of Dalness, that lives in 
everlasting shadows, went a band of shepherds, trampling their 
way across a hundred frozen streams. Dalness joined its 
strength — and then away over the drift-bridged chasms toiled 
that Gathering, with their sheep-dogs scouring the loose snows 
— in the van, Fingal, the Red Reaver, with his head aloft on the 
look-out for deer, grimly eyeing the Correi where last he tasted 
blood. All "plaided in their tartan array," these shepherds 
laughed at the storm — and hark ! you hear the bagpipe play — 
the music the Highlanders love both in war and in peace, 

" They think then of the ourie cattle, 
And silly sheep ■;" 

and though they ken 'twill be a moonless night — for the snow- 
storm will sweep her out of heaven — up the mountain and down 
the glen they go, marking where flock and herd have betaken 
themselves, and now, at night-fall, unafraid of that blind hol- 
low, they descend into the depth where once stood the old 
Grove of Pines. Following the dogs, who know their duties in 
their instinct, the band, without seeing it, are now close to that 
ruined hut. Why bark the sheep-dogs so — and why howls 
Fingal, as if some spirit passed athwart the night ? He scents 
the dead body of the boy who so often had shouted him on in 
the forest, when the antlers went by ! Not dead — nor dead 
she who is on his bosom. Yet life in both is frozen — and will 
the iced blood in their, veins ever be thawed ? Almost pitch- 
dark is the roofless ruin — and the frightened sheep know not 
what is the terrible Shape that is howling there. *But a man 
enters, and lifts up one of the bodies, giving it into the arms of 
them at the doorway — and then lifts up the other ; and, by the 
flash of a rifle, they see that it is Ranald Cameron and Flora 
Macdonald, seemingly both frozen to death. Some of those 
reeds that the shepherds burn in their huts are kindled, and in 
that small light they are assured that such are the corpses. But 
that noble dog knows that death is not there — and licks the face 



232 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

of Ranald, as if he would restore life to his eyes. Two of the 
shepherds know well how to fold the dying in their plaids — 
how gentliest to carry them along ; for they had learnt it on the 
field of victorious battle, when, without stumbling over the dead 
and wounded, they bore away the shattered body, yet living, 
of the youthful warrior, who had shown that of such a clan he 
was worthy to be the chief. 

To life were brought the dead ; and there at midnight sat 
they up like ghosts. Strange seemed they, for a while, to each 
other's eyes ; and at each other they looked as if they had for- 
gotten how dearly once they loved. Then as if in holy fear 
they gazed on each other's faces, thinking that they had awoke 
together in heaven. " Flora !" said Ranald ; — and that sweet 
word, the first he had been able to speak, reminded him of all 
that had passed, and he knew that the God in whom they had 
put their trust had sent them deliverance. Flora, too, knew 
her parents, who were on their knees ; and she strove to rise up 
and kneel down beside them ; but she was powerless as a 
broken reed, and when she thought to join them in thanksgiv- 
ing, her voice was gone. Still as death sat all the people in 
the hut — and one or two who were fathers were not ashamed 
to weep. 

Who were they — the solitary pair — all alone by themselves, 
save a small image of her on whose breast it lay — whom, seven 
summers after, we came upon in our wanderings, before their 
Shieling in Correi-Vollach at the foot of Ben Chrulas, who 
sees his shadow in a hundred lochs ? Who but Ranald and 
Flora ? 



The Influence of Woman in Free Governments, 

"Webster. 

It is by the promulgation of sound morals in the community, 
and, more especially, by the training and instruction of the 
young, that woman performs her part towards the preservation 
of a free government. It is generally admitted that public 
liberty, the perpetuity of a free constitution, rests on the virtue 
and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How is 
that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be 



INFLUENCE OF WOMAN IN FREE GOVERNMENT. 233 

communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madame de Stael in 
what manner he could most promote the happiness of France. 
Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said : " Instruct the 
mothers of the French people." Mothers are, indeed, the affec- 
tionate and effective teachers of the human race. The mother 
begins her process of training with the infant in her arms. It 
is she who directs, so to speak, its first mental and spiritual 
pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible years of 
childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver it to the rough con- 
tests and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good prin- 
ciples which her child has received from maternal care and 
love. 

If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers 
of a civilized nation, what do we see ? We behold so many 
artificers working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on the 
immortal mind, moulding and fashioning beings who are to exist 
forever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present 
the mimic man upon the canvass ; we admire and celebrate the 
sculptor who works out that same image in enduring marble ; 
but how insignificant are these achievements, though the highest 
and the fairest in all the departments of art, in comparison with 
the great vocation of human mothers ! They work, not upon 
the canvass that shall fail, or the marble that shall crumble into 
dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and 
which is to bear, for good or evil, throughout its duration, the 
impress of a mother's plastic hand. 

I have already expressed the opinion, which all allow to be 
correct, that our security for the duration of the free institu- 
tions which bless our country depends upon the habits of virtue 
and the prevalence of knowledge and of education. Knowledge 
does not comprise all which is contained in the larger term of 
i education. The feelings are to be disciplined ; the passions are 
to be restrained ; true and worthy motives are to be inspired ; 
; a profound religious feeling is to be instilled, and pure morality 
i inculcated, under all circumstances. All this is comprised in 
i education. Mothers who are faithful to this great duty will 
i tell their children that neither in political nor in any other con- 
: cerns of life can man ever withdraw himself from the perpetual 
obligations of conscience and of duty ; that in every act, 
i whether public or private, he incurs a just responsibility ; and 
: that in no condition is he warranted in trifling with important 
rights and obligations. They will impress upon their children 
the truth, that the exercise of the elective franchise is a social 
duty, of as solemn a nature as man can be called to perform ; 



234 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

that a man may not innocently trifle with his vote ; that every 
free elector is a trustee, as well for others as himself; and that 
every man and every measure he supports has an important 
bearing on the interests of others as well as on his own. It is 
in the inculcation of high and pure morals, such as these, that, 
in a free republic, woman performs her sacred duty, and fulfils 
her destiny. 



Our Government a System of Checks, 

Gouverneur Morris. 

Our government is a system of salutary checks : one legis- 
lative branch is a check on the other. And should the violence 
of party spirit bear both of them away, the President, an officer 
high in honor, high in the public confidence, charged with 
weighty concerns, responsible to his own reputation and to the 
world, stands ready to arrest their too impetuous course. This 
is our system. It makes no mad appeal to every mob in the 
country. It appeals to the sober sense of men selected from 
their fellow- citizens for their talents, for their virtue ; of men 
advanced in life, and of matured judgment. It appeals to their 
understanding, to their integrity, to their honor, to their love of 
fame, to their sense of shame. If all these checks should prove 
insufficient, and alas ! such is the condition of human nature, 
that I fear they will not always be sufficient, the Constitution 
has given us one more ; it has given us an independent judiciary. 
We have been told that the executive authority carries your 
laws into execution. But let us not be the dupes of sound. 
The executive magistrate commands, indeed, your fleets and 
armies ; and duties, imposts, excises, and other taxes are col- 
lected, and all expenditures are made by officers whom he has 
appointed. So far, indeed, he executes your laws. But these, 
his acts, apply not often to individual concerns. In those cases, 
so important to the peace and happiness of society, the execu- 
tion of your laws is confided to your judges ; and therefore are 
they rendered independent. Before, then, that you violate that 
independence — pause. There are State sovereignties as well as 
the sovereignty of the general government. There are cases, 
too many cases, in which the interest of one is not considered 



THE SHIPWRECK. 235 

as the interest of the other. Should these conflict, if the ju- 
diciary be gone, the question is no longer of law, but of force. 
This is a state of things which no honest and wise man can 
view without horror. 

Suppose, in the omnipotence of your legislative authority, 
you trench upon the rights of your fellow- citizens by passing 
an unconstitutional law : if the judiciary department preserve 
its vigor, it will stop you short ; instead of a resort to arms, 
there will be a happier appeal to argument. Suppose a case 
still more impressive. The President is at the head of your 
armies. Let one of his generals, flushed with victory, and proud 
in command, presume to trample on the rights of your most 
insignificent citizen: indignant of the wrong, he will demand 
the protection of your tribunals, and, safe in the shadow of 
their wings, will laugh his oppressor to scorn. 



The Shipwreck.— Byron. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift, 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shattered the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy, 

The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

As day advanced the weather seemed to abate, 
And then the leak they reckoned to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 

Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, 

The mainmast followed : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last, (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 



236 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lulled : the masts were gone, 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seemed all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed a sail. 

Again the weather threatened — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appeared ; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps : a wreck complete she rolled 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 

"Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose fate is masked but to assail. 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 

And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose_ 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use ; 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars, 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 

Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave — ■ 

Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yawned around her like a hell, 

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, 

Like one who grapples with his enemy, 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 

And first one universal shriek there rushed, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hushed, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gushed, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 237 

Prometheus Bound.— Mscktlvs. 

Am divine ! And ye, swift-winged Winds ! 
Ye River-fountains ! and ye countless smiles 

Of dimpling Ocean ! Mother Earth ! And thou, 

Far-piercing Eye of day ! On you I call. 

Witness what I, a god, from gods endure. 

Behold, with what fierce pangs, years without end, 

Amerced, have I to struggle here ; such chains 

Hath this new king of gods devised for me. 

Present and future, both, alas ! I wail ; 

When shall these woes have end ? But why inquire ? 

Since clear before me lies the Future, nor 

Can aught of evil, unforeseen, betide. 

Then bear what must be, nor wage war with stern 

Necessity's unconquerable power. 

But to complain, or not complain, alike 

Is unavailable. For favors shown 

To mortal man I bear this weight of woe. 

Hid in a hollow cane the fount of fire 

1 privately conveyed, of every art 

The instructress, and best, noblest gift to man. 

For this, this one offense, I wear these chains. 

Woe ! woe ! — But whence that sound ! Whence yon sweet odor 

Soft-stealing o'er the sense ? — And who comes there, 

Divine, or mortal, or of hero-race ? 

Comes he to this far rock, spectator of 

My wretchedness, or for what other purpose ? 

Behold me then in chains, a wretched god, 

Abhorred by Jove, and all who tread his courts, 

For my fond love of man. Ah me ! again . 

I hear a sound, as if of birds. The air 

Rustles with fluttering pinions ; every object 

Approaching me strikes terror on my soul. 



Marco Bozzaris.—F. Q. Halleok. 

[He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient 
Plataea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were—" To 
die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."] 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power ; 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 



238 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek, 
" To arms ! they come : the Greek ! the Greek !' : 
He woke — to die 'midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
Strike — for your altars and your fires, 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 

God — and your native land !" 

They fought, like brave men, long and well, 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain, 
They conquered— but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
They saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother, When she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; — 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;- — 
Come in Consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm — 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine — 
And thou art terrible : the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 
The thanks of millions yet to be. 



WASHINGTON. 239 



Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's - 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born die. 



Washington,— Eliza Cook, 



Land of the west ! though passing brief 

The record of thine age, 
Thou hast a name that darkens all 

On history's wide page ! 
Let all the blasts of fame ring out— » 

Thine shall be loudest far : 
Let others boast their satellites — 

Thou hast the planet star. 

Thou hast a name whose characters 
Of light shall ne'er depart ; 

Tis stamped upon the dullest brain, 
And warms the coldest heart ; 

A war-cry fit for any land 
Where freedom's to be won. 

Land of the west ! it stands alone- 
It is thy Washington ! 

Rome had its Caesar, great and brave ; 

But stain was on his wreath : 
He lived the heartless conqueror, 

And died the tyrant's death. 
France had its eagle ; but his wings, 

Though lofty they might soar, 
Were spread in false ambition's flight, 

And dipped in murder's gore. 

Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway 

Would fain have chained the waves — 
Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, 

To make a world of slaves — 
Who, though their kindred barred the path, 

Still fiercely waded on— 
Oh, where shall be their " glory" by 

The side of Washington ? 



240 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

He fought, but not with love of strife, 

He struck but to defend ; 
And ere he turned a people's foe, 

He sought to be a friend. 
He strove to keep his country's right, 

By reason's gentle word, 
And sighed when fell injustice threw 

The challenge — sword to sword. 

He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, 

The patriot and sage ; 
He showed no deep, avenging hate — ■ 

No burst of despot rage. 
He stood for liberty and truth, 

And dauntlessly led on, 
Till shouts of victory gave forth, 

The name of Washington. 

"No car of triumph bore him through 

A city filled with grief ; 
"■ $b groaning captives at the wheels, 

Proclaimed him victor chief; 
He broke the gyves of slavery, 

With strong and high disdain, 
And cast no sceptre from the links 

When he had crushed the chain. 

He saved his land, but did not lay 

His soldier trappings down 
To change them for the regal vest, , 

And don a kingly crown. 
Fame was too earnest in her joy — 

Too proud of such a son — 
To let a robe and title mask 

A noble Washington. 



■ 



Primitive Habits of New Amsterdam.— w. Irving. 

In those happy days a well-regulated family always rose with 
the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed at sun-down. Din- 
ner was invariably a private meal, and the fat old burghers 
showed incontestable symptoms of disapprobation and uneasi- 
ness at being surprised by a visit from a neighbor on such 
occasions. But though our worthy ancestors were thus singu- 
larly averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the social bands 
of intimacy by occasional banquetings, called tea-parties. 



PRIMITIVE HABITS OF NEW AMSTERDAM. 241 

These fashionable parties were generally confined to the 
higher classes, or noblesse ; that is to say, such as kept their 
own cows, and drove their own wagons. The company com- 
monly assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six, 
unless it was in winter time, when the fashionable hours were a 
little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. The 
tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored 
with slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and 
swimming in gravy. The company being seated around the 
genial board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dex- 
terity in lanching at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish — in 
much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, Or 
our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes the table 
was graced with immense apple-pies, or saucers full of preserved 
peaches and pears ; but it was always sure to boast an enor- 
mous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and 
doughnuts, or olykoeks — a delicious kind of cake, at present 
scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. 

The tea was served out of a majestic delft tea-pot, ornamented 
with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses 
tending pigs — with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in 
the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The 
beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenish- 
ing this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which would have 
made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat 
merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar 
was laid beside each cup — and the company alternately nibbled 
and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was 
introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to 
suspend a large lump directly over the tea-table by a string 
from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to 
mouth — an ingenious expedient which is still kept up by some 
families in Albany ; but which prevails without exception in 
Communipaw, Bergen, Flatbush, and all our uncontaminated 
Dutch villages. 

At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety and dig- 
nity of deportment prevailed. No flirting or coqueting — no 
gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering and romping of 
young ones — no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, 
with their brains in their pockets — nor amusing conceits and 
monkey divertisements of smart young gentlemen with no 
brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated them- 
selves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their 
own woollen stockings ; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to 
11 



242 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

say yaw, Mynher, or yaw, yaw, Vrouw, to any question that 
■was asked them ; behaving in all things like decent, well- 
educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tran- 
quilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the 
blue and white tiles with which the fire-places were decorated ; 
wherein sundry passages of Scripture were piously portrayed — 
Tobit and his dog figured to great advantage ; Haman swung 
conspicuously on his gibbet ; and Jonah appeared most man- 
fully bouncing out of the whale, like Harlequin through a bar- 
rel of fire. 

The parties broke up without noise and without confusion. 
They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say, 
by the vehicles Nature had provided them, excepting such of 
the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen 
gallantly attended their fair ones to their respective abodes, and 
took leave of them with a hearty smack at the door ; which, as 
it was an established piece of etiquette, done in perfect sim- 
plicity and honesty of heart, occasioned no scandal at that time, 
nor should it at the present : if our great-grandfathers approved 
of the custom, it would argue a great want of reverence in their 
descendants to say a word against it. 



The Patriot's Hope for Ireland.— Km. Henry Giles. 

If a soil the most fertile has borne but a starving peasantry ; 
if noble rivers have flowed unburdened to the sea ; if capacious 
harbors have been ruffled by no freighted keels ; if mines of 
wealth have slumbered untouched in the sleeping earth, still I 
do not despair for my country. The soil is there yet in its 
beauty, and its children may yet live upon its fullness. The 
rivers are yet majestic, and will not always be a solitude. The 
broad and sheltered bay, that now mirrors but the mountains 
and the heavens, may yet reflect the snowy drapery of many a 
gallant ship ; and the hills, on which now the ragged and de- 
jected shepherd wanders, may yet yield up their treasures to 
the light. Nature is not dead. Nature is not dead in the works 
of creation or in the soul of man. Nature is not dead ; but 
ever, in its generous beauty, covers and supports us. No fool- 
ish passions can dry up the kindly breast of earth, or consume 
the fatness of the clouds, or shut out the glory of the skies. 



THE PATRIOT'S HOPE FOR IRELAND. 243 

Nature yet survives — survives in her limitless bounty — survives 
in her eternal youth ; and the people, though impoverished, are 
not destroyed. No wrongs have been able to crush them, no 
wars to render them inhuman. From every savage influence 
they have come forth, not indeed uninjured, but yet not deeply 
degraded nor ruthlessly depraved. From the worst experience 
in the history of nations, they have saved elements of excellence 
that may be shaped into the noblest civilization. From a long 
and dreary night of bondage, they have escaped with the vivid 
intellect, the cheerful temper, the affectionate spirit, the earnest, 
the hopeful enthusiasm that springs, elastic, from every sorrow. 
The hour now seems dark in Ireland, but the light is not 
quenched ; it is only for a season obscured. The cloud is thick 
and broad ; it rests heavily over the shivering millions ; it is 
most dreary ; and it seems filled with threatenings. But the 
moveless sun is shining tranquilly above it in the benignant and 
the everlasting heavens. The cloud may break in tempest; 
but stillness and beauty will come when the hurricane has spent 
its strength, and the storm has passed away. But no tempest 
will, possibly, come at all. The cloud may dissolve in rain: it 
may give freshness where it had only given gloom, and cool the 
ardor of the beams which it had excluded. Heavy skies bring 
lightning ; lightning brings the shower ; then comes the sunshine 
on the grass, and all the fields are sparkling with glory and with 
gems. Let me so think of the moral atmosphere that now 
hangs around and over Ireland. It is not to continue. God is 
in his universe, and guides the nations in their way. We will 
hold to our goodly trust ; and, in the strength of that earnest 
trust, we will firmly believe that he has rich blessings yet in 
store for Ireland. Where often we can see nothing but evil, 
our gracious Father is preparing good ; and we will so believe 
it now, for sad, afflicted, mourning Ireland. Oh, land of my 
heart, of my fathers, and my birth ! I will ever keep it in my 
thoughts that God is looking down upon you with pity and with 
grace, and that he will call you up more brightly from your 
calamity. The times, indeed, seem bad ; but suffering will 
leave its blessings. Plenty will come again ; and humility, and 
gratitude, and mercy, and penitent and softened hearts, will 
come along with it. Peace will be established — confidence will 
come with peace — capital will follow confidence — employment 
will increase with capital — education will be desired — knowledge 
will be diffused — and virtue will grow with knowledge. Yet, 
even if these things should not soon be ; if all that is now an- 
ticipated should long be " hope deferred," and many a heart 



244 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

should sicken in waiting for relief, yet I will not despond ; I will 
not despond for Ireland ; I will not despond for humanity ; I 
will entertain no doubt in the Agency which guides the world, 
and no mistrust in the destiny whereunto the world moves. 
We cannot, in this condition of trial, look for the extinction of 
evil; but we may for its amelioration. We cannot hope for 
perfection, but we may hope for progress. Confidence in prog- 
ress is not presumption, but faith — faith in Providence and faith 
in prophecy ; faith in Providence, justified by history — for his- 
tory is the record of Providence, in the development of ages ; 
faith in prophecy, justified by promise — for prophecy has ever 
been a voice in the hearts of God's inspired ones, with the 
promise of better times and better things. Sustained in the 
power of this faith, whether I look before or whether I look 
after, there is encouragement, there is good. In the retrospect, 
I behold but blanks on many a spot where tyrants had built 
their thrones for eternity, when they dared in their pride and in 
their guilt to say, " We are gods, and who shall destroy us ?" 
Where superstition had muttered her midnight mysteries in the 
darkness of heathendom, I find but noisome ruins — the screech 
of the owl and the cry of the raven. I trace the way of the 
past over many a battle-field on which truth and liberty were 
fought — on which truth and liberty were victors. I behold 
along that track the wrecks of a thousand errors and the prints 
of a thousand crimes ; and I see that the errors and the crimes 
which left them have melted as a, dream, or vanished as a vision 
of the night. I look onward — onward — onward, and I behold 
man — advancing man — triumphant man — the light of heaven on 
his brow — the fire of freedom in his eye — the inspiration of 
righteousness in his regenerated soul — his proud foot on the 
grave of buried oppressions, and his exalted voice swelling 
gloriously aloud into the lofty hallelujahs of enlightened and 
of emancipated nations. 



Glory. — President "Watland. 



The crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous mausoleum, the 
sculptured marble and the venerable cathedral, all bear witness 
to the instinctive desire within us to be remembered by coming 
generations. But how short-lived is the immortality which the 



GLORY. 245 

works of our hands can confer ! The noblest monuments of art 
that the world has ever seen are covered with the soil of twenty- 
centuries. The works of the age of Pericles lie at the foot of* 
the Acropolis in indiscriminate ruin. The ploughshare turns up 
the marble which the hand of Phidias had chiselled into beauty, 
and the Mussulman has folded his flock beneath the falling 
columns of the temple of Minerva. But even the works of our 
hands too frequently survive the memory of those who have 
created them. And were it otherwise, could we thus carry- 
down to distant ages the recollection of our existence, it were 
surely childish to waste the energies of an immortal spirit in 
the effort to make it known to other times, that a being whose 
name was written with certain letters of the alphabet once lived, 
and flourished, and died. Neither sculptured marble, nor stately 
column, can reveal to other ages the lineaments of the spirit ; 
and these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts of a 
grateful posterity. As the stranger stands beneath the dome 
of St. Paul's, or treads, with religious awe, the silent aisles of 
Westminster Abbey, the sentiment which is breathed from every 

object around him is, the utter emptiness of sublunary glory 

The fine arts, obedient to private affection or public gratitude, 
have here imbodied, in every form, the finest conceptions of 
which their age was capable. Each one of these monuments 
has been watered by the tears of the widow, the orphan, or the 
patriot. But generations have passed away, and mourners and 
mourned have sunk together into forgetfulness. The aged crone, 
or the smooth-tongued beadle, as now he hurries you through 
aisles and chapel, utters, with measured cadence and unmeaning 
tone, for the thousandth time, the name and lineage of the 
once honored dead ; and then gladly dismisses you, to repeat 
again his well- conned lesson to another group of idle passers- 
by. Such, in its most august form, is all the immortality that 

matter can confer It is by what we ourselves "have done, 

and not by what others have done for us, that we shall be 
remembered by after ages. It is by thought that has aroused 
my intellect from its slumbers, which has "given lustre to vir- 
tue, and dignity to truth," or by those examples which have 
inflamed my soul with the love of goodness, and not by means 
i of sculptured marble, that I hold communion with Shakspeare 
and Milton, with Johnson and Burke, with Howard and Wilber- 
I force. 



246 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



The Age of Revolutions,— Edward Everett. 

The present age may be justly described as the Age of Revo- 
lutions. The whole civilized world is agitated with political 
convulsions, and seems to be panting and struggling in agony 
after some unattained — perhaps unattainable good. From the 
commencement of our revolution up to the present day, we 
have witnessed, in Europe and America, an uninterrupted series 
of important changes. The thrones of the Old World have been 
shaken to their foundations. On our own continent, empires 
that bore the name of colonies, have shaken or are shaking off 
the shackles of dependence. And so far is this, the age of rev- 
olutions, which has already lasted more than half a century, 
from having reached its termination, that the very last year has 
been more fruitful in the most tremendous convulsions, than any 
preceding one ; and the present will probably be still more 
agitated than the last. Every arrival from abroad brings us 
intelligence of some new event of the highest moment ; some 
people rising in revolt against their sovereign ; some new consti- 
tution proclaimed in one country ; some reform, equivalent to 
a new constitution, projected in another ; France, in the midst 
of a dangerous revolutionary crisis ; Belgium, Poland, and Italy, 
the scenes of actual hostilities ; England, on the eve of commo- 
tion : the whole European commonwealth apparently plunging 
again into the gulf of general war. 

What is the object of all these desperate struggles? The 
object of them is to obtain an extension of individual liberty. 
Established institutions have lost their influence and authority. 
Men have become weary of submitting to names and forms 
which they once reverenced. It has been ascertained — to use 
the language of Napoleon, that a throne is only four boards 
covered with velvet — that a written constitution is but a sheet 
of parchment. There is, in short, an effort making throughout 
the world to reduce the action of Government within the nar- 
rowest possible limits, and to give the widest possible extent to 
individual liberty. 

Our own country, though happily exempt — and God grant 
that it may long continue so — from the troubles of Europe, is 
not exempt from the influence of the causes that produce them. 
We too are inspired and agitated, and governed by the all-per- 
vading, all-inspiring, all-agitating, all- governing spirit of the age. 
What do I say ? We were the first to feel and act upon its 
influence. Our revolution was the first of the long series that 



BELSHAZZAR. 247 

has since shaken every corner of Europe and America. Our 
fathers led the van in the long array of heroes, martyrs, and 
confessors, who had fought and fallen under the banner of lib- 
erty. The institutions they bequeathed to us, and under which 
we are living in peace and happiness, were founded on the prin- 
ciples which lie at the bottom of the present agitation in Europe. 
We have realized what our contemporaries are laboring to attain. 
Our tranquillity is the fruit of an entire acquiescence in the spirit 
of the age. We have reduced the action of Government within 
narrower limits, and given a wider scope to individual liberty, 
than any community that ever flourished before. 



Belshazzar.—CROLY. 



Hour of an Empire's overthrow ! 

The princes from the feast were gone ; 
The Idol flame was burning low ; — 

'Twas midnight upon Babylon. 

That night the feast was wild and high ; 

That night was Sion's gold profaned ; 
The seal was set to blasphemy ; 

The last deep cup of wrath was drained. 

'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall, 
Belshazzar on his couch was flung ; 

A burst of thunder filled the hall — 

He heard — but 'twas no mortal tongue : 

" King of the East ! the trumpet calls, 
That calls thee to a tyrant's grave : 

A curse is on thy palace walls — 
A curse is on thy guardian wave : 

" A surge is in Euphrates' bed, 
That never filled its bed before ; 

A surge, that, ere the morn be red, 

Shall load with death its haughty shore. 

" Behold a tide of Persian steel ! 

A torrent of the Median car ; 
Like flame their gory banners wheel ; 

Rise, king, and arm thee for the war !" 



248 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Belshazzar gazed ; the voice was past — 
The lofty chamber filled with gloom ; 

But echoed on the sudden blast 
The rushing of a mighty plume. 

He listened ; all again was still ; 

He heard no chariot's iron clang ; 
He heard the fountain's gushing rill, 

The breeze that through the roses sang. 

He slept ; in sleep wild murmurs came ; 

A visioned splendor fired the sky ; 
He heard Belshazzar's taunted name ; 

He heard again the Prophet cry — 

"Sleep, Sultan! 'tis thy final sleep, 
Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies. 

The wrongs of those who watch and weep> 
Around thee and thy nation rise." 

He started ; 'mid the battle's yell, 
He saw the Persian rushing on : 

He saw the flames around Mm swell ; 
Thou'rt ashes ! King of Babylon. 



The Men of Old.—R. Monckton Milni& 

I know not that the men of old 

Were better than men now, 
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 

Of more ingenuous brow : 
I heed not those who pine for force 

A ghost of time to raise, 
As if they thus could check the course 

Of these appointed days. 

Still is it true, and over true, 

That I delight to close 
This book of life self-wise and new, 

And let my thoughts repose 
On all that humble happiness 

The world has since forgone — 
The daylight of contentedness 

That on those faces shone ! 

With rights, though not too closely scanned, 

Enjoyed — as far as known — 
With will, by no reverse unmanned — 

With pulse of even tone — 



THE MEN OP OLD. 

They from to-day and from to-night 

Expected nothing more, 
Than yesterday and yesternight 

Had proffered them before. 

To them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 
A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 
A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to know, 
Content, as men-at-arms, to cope 

Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his virtue's diadem 

Puts on, and proudly wears — 
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, 

Like instincts unawares : 
Blending their soul's sublimest needs 

With tasks of every day, 
They went about their gravest deeds, 

As noble boys at play. 



A man's best things are nearest him, 

Lie close about his feet, 
It is the distant and the dim 

That we are sick to greet : 
For flowers that grow our hands beneath 

We struggle and aspire — 
Our hearts must die, except they breathe 

The air of fresh desire. 

But, brothers, who up reason's hill 

Advance with hopeful cheer — 
! loiter not, those heights are chill, 

As chill as they are clear ; 
And still restrain your haughty gaze, 

The loftier that ye go, 
Remembering distance leaves a haze 

On all that lies below. 



249 



The Battle of Ivry.— Macaulay, 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, 

From whom all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, 

King Henry of Navarre ! 
11* 



250 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Now let there be the merry sound 

Of music and the dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, 

Oh pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 

Proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes 

Of all thy mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, 

Be joyous in our joy, 
For cold, and stiff, and still are they 

Who wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field 

Hath turned the chance of war, 
Hurrah! hurrah: for Ivry, 

And King Henry of Navarre ! 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, 

When, at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League 

Drawn out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, 

And all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, 

And Egmont's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, 

The curses of our land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, 

A truncheon in his hand ; . . 
And, as we looked on them, we thought 

Of Seine's empurpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair 

All dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, 

Who rules the fate of war, 
To fight for his own holy name, 

And Henry of Navarre. 

The king is come to marshal us, 

In all his armor drest, 
And he has bound a snow-white plume 

Upon his gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, 

And a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, 

And his glance was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, 

As rolled from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, in deafening shout, 

" Gqpl save our lord, the king." 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, 

As fall full well he may — 
.For never saw I promise yet 

Of such a bloody fray — 






THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 251 

Press where ye see my white plurae shine, 

Amidst the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme, to-day, 

The helmet of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! 
Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 

And roaring culverin ! 
The fiery Duke is pricking fast 

Across Saint Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry 

Of Guelders and Almayne, 
Now by the lips of those ye love, 

Fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now, 

Upon them with the lance ! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, 

A thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close 

Behind the snow-white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, 

While, like a guiding star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed 

The helmet of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! 

Mayenne hath turned his rein. 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — 

The Flemish Count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 

Before a Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, 

And flags, and cloven mail ; 
And then we thought on vengeance, 

And all along our van, 
(i Remember St. Bartholemew," 

Was passed from man to man ; 
But out spake gentle Henry, 

" No Frenchman is my foe ; 
Down, down, with every foreigner ; 

But let your brethren go." 
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, 

In friendship or in war, 
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, 

The soldier of Navarre \ 

Ho! maidens of Vienne! 

Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 

Who never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, 

Thy Mexican pistoles, 



252 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass 

For thy poor spearmen's souls ! 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League 

Look that your arms be bright ! 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, 

Keep watch and ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crushed thy tyrant, 

Our God hath raised the slave, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise 

And the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to his holy name 

From whom all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, 

King Henry of Navarre^ 



Robin Mood.— Scott. 



" The yeomen and commons," said De Brac} r , " must not be 
dismissed discontented, for lack of their share in the sports." 

"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent — let 
the archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be 
adjudged. This will be an abundant fulfilment of the prince's 
promises, so far as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned." 

" I thank thee, Waldemar," said the prince ; " thou remindest 
me, too, that I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who 
yesterday insulted our person." 

The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those spectators who 
had already begun to leave the field ; and proclamation was 
made that Prince John, suddenly called by high and peremptory 
public duties, held himself obliged to discontinue the entertain- 
ments of to-morrow's festival. Nevertheless, that, unwilling so 
many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he 
was pleased to appoint them, before leaving the ground, pre- 
sently to execute the competition of archery intended for the 
morrow. To the best archer a prize was to be awarded, being 
a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric richly 
ornamented with a medallion of Saint Hubert, the patron of 
silvan sport. 

More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as 
competitors, several of whom were rangers and under-keepers 
in the royal forests of Needwood and Charnwood. When, 
however, the archers understood with whom they were to be 



ROBIN HOOD. 253 

matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the 
contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost certain 
defeat. For in those days the skill of each celebrated marks- 
man was as well known for many miles round him, as the qual- 
ities of a horse trained at Newmarket are familiar to those who 
frequent that well-known meeting. 

The diminished list of competitors for silvan fame still 
amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to 
view more nearly the persons of these chosen yeomen, several 
of whom wore the royal livery. Having satisfied his curiosity, 
by this investigation, he looked for the object of his resentment, 
whom he observed standing on the same spot, and with the 
same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the 
preceding day. 

■" Fellow," said Prince John, " I guessed by thy insolent bab- 
ble thou wert no true lover of the long-bow, and I see thou 
darest not adventure thy skill among such merry-men as stand 
yonder." 

" Under favor, sir," replied the yeoman, " I have another 
reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture 
and disgrace." 

" And what is thy other reason ?" said Prince John, who, for 
some cause, which perhaps he could not himself have explained, 
felt a painful curiosity respecting this individual. 

" Because," replied the woodsman, " I know not if these yeo- 
men and I are used to shoot at the same marks ; and because, 
moreover, I know not how your grace might relish the winning 
of a third prize by one who has unwittingly fallen under your 
displeasure." 

Prince John colored as he put the question, " What is thy 
name, yeoman ?" 

" Locksley," answered the yeoman. 

" Then, Locksley," said Prince John, " thou shalt shoot in 
thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If 
thou earnest the prize, I will add to it twenty nobles ; but 
if thou losest it, thou shalt be stript of thy Lincoln green, and 
scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and inso- 
lent braggart." 

" And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager ?" said the 
yeoman? "Your grace's power, supported as it is by so many 
men-at-arms, may indeed easily strip and scourge me, but can- 
not compel me to bend or draw my bow." 

* If thou refusest my fair proffer," said the prince, " the pro- 
vost of the lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and 



254 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

arrows, and expel thee from the presence as a faint-hearted 
craven." 

" This is no fair chance } t ou put on me, proud prince," said 
the yeoman, " to compel me to peril myself against the best 
archers of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of in- 
famy if they should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I will obey 
your pleasure." 

A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue 
which led to the lists. The contending archers took their sta- 
tion in turn at the bottom of the southern access ; the distance 
between that station and the mark allowing full distance for 
what was called a shot at rovers. The archers having pre- 
viously determined by lot their order of precedence, were to 
shoot each three shafts in succession. The sports were regu- 
lated by an officer of inferior rank, termed the Provost of the 
Games ; for the high rank of the marshals of the lists would 
have been held degraded had they condescended to superintend 
the sports of the yeomanry. 

One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their 
shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows shot in 
succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged 
so near it, that, considering the distance of the mark, it was 
accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the tar- 
get, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester 
in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced 
victorious. 

" Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the bold yeoman, 
with a bitter smile, " wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or 
wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and quiver, to the provost of 
the sports ?" 

" Sith it be no better," said Locksley, " I am content to try 
my fortune, on condition that when I have shot two shafts at 
yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that 
which I shall propose." 

" That is but fair," answered Prince John, " and it shall not 
be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I 
will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee." 

" A man can do but his best," answered Hubert ; " but my 
grandsire drew a good long-bow at Hastings, and I trust not to 
dishonor his memory." 

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the 
same size placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the 
first trial of skill, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with 
great deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, 



ROBIN HOOD. 255 

while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed 
on the string. At length he made a step forward, and raising 
the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or 
grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew his bow- 
string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and 
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in 
the centre. 

" You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his an- 
tagonist, bending his bow, " or that had been a better shot." 

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause 
upon his aim, Locksley stept to the appointed station, and shot 
his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even 
looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant 
that the shaft left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target 
two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre 
than that of Hubert. 

Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution 
which he had received from his adversary, he made the neces- 
sary allowance for a very light air of wind which had just arisen, 
and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very cen- 
tre of the target. 

" A Hubert ! a Hubert !" shouted the populace, more inter- 
ested in a known person than in a stranger. " In the clout ! — 
in the clout ! — a Hubert for ever !" 

'" Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the prince, 
with an insulting smile. 

" I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley. 
And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than 
before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it 
split to shivers. 

The people who stood around were so astonished at his won- 
derful dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their 
surprise in their usual clamor. " This must be the devil, and no 
man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other ; 
" such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in 
Britain." 

" And now," said Locksley, " I will crave your grace's per- 
mission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country, 
and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to 
win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best." 

He then turned to leave the lists. " Let your guards attend 
me," he said, "if you please — I go but to cut a rod from the 
next willow bush." 

Prince John made a signal that some attendants should fol- 



256 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

low him in case of his escape ; but the cry of "Shame ! shame !" 
which burst from the multitude, induced him to alter his ungen- 
erous purpose. 

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow-wand about 
six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a 
man's thumb. He began to peel this with great composure, 
observing, at the same time, that to ask a good woodsman to 
shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used was to put 
shame upon his skill. "For his own part," he said, " and in 
the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their 
mark King Arthur's round-table, which held sixty knights 
around it. A child of seven years old," he said, " might hit 
yonder target with a headless shaft ; but," added he, walking 
deliberately to the other end' of the lists, and sticking the wil- 
low-wand upright in the ground, " he that hits that rod at 
five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow and 
quiver before a king, an it were the stout King Richard 
himself." 

" My grandsire," said Hubert, " drew a good bow at the 
battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life — 
and neither will I. If this yeoman can cleave that rod, I give 
him the bucklers — or rather, I yield to the devil that is in his 
jerkin, and not to any human skill ; a man can but do his best, 
and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well 
shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, 
or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can 
hardly see." 

" Cowardly dog !" said Prince John. " Sirrah Locksley, do 
thou shoot ; but if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art 
the first man ever did so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow 
over us with a mere show of superior skill." 

" I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley ; 
"no man can do more." 

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion 
looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, 
which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a lit- 
tle frayed by the two former shots. He then took his aim with 
some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in 
breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his 
skill ; his arrow split the willow-rod against which it was aimed. 
A jubilee of acclamations followed ; and even Prince John, in 
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to 
his person. " These twenty nobles," he said, " which, with the 
bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own ; we will make them 



OLIVER TWIST. 25*7 

fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman 
of our body-guard, and be near to our person ; for never did so 
strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft." 

" Pardon me, noble prince," said Locksley ; " but I have 
vowed, that if ever I take service it should be with your royal 
brother King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, 
who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at 
Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would 
have hit the wand as well as I." 

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the 
bounty of the stranger ; and Locksley, anxious to escape farther 
observation, mixed with the crowd, and was seen no more. 



Oliver Twist,— Dickens. 



In a handsome room — though its furniture had rather the 
air of old-fashioned comfort than of modern elegance — there 
sat tfto ladies at a well-spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, 
dressed with scrupulous care in a full suit of black, was in at- 
tendance upon them. He had taken his station some half way 
between the sideboard and the breakfast-table, and with his 
body drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back and in- 
clined the merest trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and 
his right hand thrust into his waistcoat, while his left hung 
down by his side grasping a waiter, looked like one who labored 
under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance. 

Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years, but the 
high-backed oaken chair in which she sat was not more upright 
than she. Dressed with the utmost nicety and precision in a 
quaint mixture of by-gone costume, with some slight conces- 
sions to the prevailing taste, which rather served to point the 
old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat in a stately 
manner with her hands folded on the table before her, and her 
eyes, of which age had dimmed but little of their brightness, 
attentively fixed upon her young companion. 

The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time 
of womanhood; at that age when, if ever angels be for God's 
good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be without 
impiety supposed to abide in such as hers. 



258 THE PKACTIOAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite 
a mould, so mild and gentle, so pure and beautiful, that earth 
seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit com- 
panions. The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye 
and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her 
age or of the world, and yet the changing expression of sweet- 
ness and good humor, the thousand lights that played about 
the face and left no shadow there ; above all, the smile — the 
cheerful, happy smile — were entwined with the best sympathies 
and affections of our nature. 

She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table, and 
chancing to raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, 
playfully put back her hair, which was simply braided on her 
forehead, and threw into one beaming look such a gush of affec- 
tion and artless loveliness, that blessed spirits might have 
smiled to look upon her. 

The elder lady smiled ; but her heart was full, and she 
brushed away a tear as she did so. 

" And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he ?" 
asked the old lady after a pause. 

" An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, 
referring to a silver watch which he drew forth by a black 
ribbon. • 

" He is always slow," remarked the old lady. 

" Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attend- 
ant. And seeing, by-the-by, that Brittles had been a slow boy 
for upwards of thirty years, there appeared no great probability 
of his ever being a fast one. 

" He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady. 

" It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any 
other boys," said the young lady, smiling. 

Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of in- 
dulging in a respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to 
the garden gate, out of which there jumped a fat gentleman, 
who ran straight up to the door, and getting quickly into the 
house by some mysterious process, burst into the room, and 
nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together. 

" I never heard of such a thing !" exclaimed the fat gentle- 
man. " My dear Mrs. May lie — bless my soul — in the silence of 
night too — I never heard of such a thing !" 

With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman 
shook hands with both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired 
how they found themselves. 

" You ought to be dead— positively dead with the fright," 



OLIVER TWIST. 259 

said the fat gentleman. Why didn't you send ? Bless me, my 
man should have come in a minute, or I myself and my assist- 
ant would have been delighted, or anybody : I'm sure, under 
circumstances ; dear, dear — so unexpected — in the silence of 
night too !" 

The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the 
robbery having been unexpected, and attempted in the night- 
time, as if it were the established custom of gentlemen in the 
house-breaking way to transact business at noon, and to make 
an appointment by the twopenny post a day or two previous. 

" And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young 
lady, "I"— 

" Oh ! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; 
" but there is a poor creature up stairs whom aunt wishes you 
to see." 

" Ah ! to be sure," replied the doctor, " so there is. That 
was your handiwork, Giles, I understand." 

Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to 
rights, blushed very red, and said that he had had that honor. 

" Honor, eh ?" said the doctor; " well, I don't know, perhaps 
it's as honorable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your 
man at twelve paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've 
fought a duel, Giles." 

Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an 
unjust attempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, 
that it was not for the like of him to judge about that, but he 
rather thought it was no joke to the opposite party. 

" Gad, that's true !" said the doctor. " Where is he ? Show 
me the way. I'll look in again as I come down, Mrs. May lie. 
That's the little window that he got in at, eh ? Well, I couldn't 
have believed it." Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles 
up stairs ; and while he is going up stairs the reader may be 
informed that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the neighborhood, 
known through a circuit of ten miles round as " the doctor,' 
had grown fat more from good humor than from good living, 
and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old 
bachelor as will be found in five times that space by any ex- 
plorer alive. 

The doctor was absent much longer than either he or the 
ladies had anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the 
gig, and a bed-room bell was rung very often, and the servants 
ran up and down stairs perpetually, from which tokens it was 
justly concluded that something important was going on above. 
At length he returned ; and in reply to an anxious inquiry after 



260 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

his patient, looked very mysterious, and closed the door care- 
fully. 

" This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie," said the 
doctor, standing with his back to the door as if to keep it shut. 

" He is not in danger, I hope ?" said the old lady. 

" Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the 
circumstances," replied the doctor, " though I don't think he 
is. Have you seen this thief ?" 

"No," rejoined the old lady. 

" Nor heard anything about him ?" 

"No." 

" I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed Mr. Giles ; " but I 
was going to tell you about him when Dr. Losberne came in." 

The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not at first been able to 
bring his mind to the avowal that he had only shot a boy. 
Such commendations had been bestowed upon his bravery, that 
he could not for the life of him help postponing the explanation 
for a few delicious minutes, during which he had flourished in 
the very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage. 

" Rose wished to see the man," said Mrs. Maylie, " but I 
wouldn't hear of it." 

" Humph !" rejoined the doctor. " There's nothing very 
alarming in his appearance. Have you any objection to see 
him in my presence ?" 

" If it be necessary," replied the old lady, " certainly not." 

" Then I think it is necessary," said the doctor ; "at all 
events, I am quite sure that you would deeply regret not hav- 
ing done so, if you postponed it. He is perfectly quiet and 
comfortable now. Allow me — Miss Rose, will you permit me ? 
not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honor." 

With many more loquacious assurances that they would be 
agreeably surprised in the aspect of the criminal, the doctor 
drew the young lady's arm through one of his, and offering his 
disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them with much ceremony 
and stateliness up stairs. 

" Now," said the doctor in a whisper, as he softly turned the 
handle of a bed-room door, "let us hear what you think of 
him. He has not been shaved very recently, but he doesn't 
look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, though : let me 
see that he is in visiting order first." 

Stepping before them, he looked into the room, and motion- 
ing them to advance, closed the door when they had entered, 
and gently drew back the curtains of the bed. Upon it, in 
lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to 



OLIVER TWIST. 261 

behold, there lay a mere child, worn with pain and exhaustion, 
and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound and 
splintered up, was crossed upon his breast, and his head re- 
clined upon the other, which was half hidden by his long hair 
as it streamed over the pillow. 

The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked 
on for a minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the 
patient thus, the younger lady glided softly past, and seating 
herself in a chair by the bedside, gathered Oliver's hair from 
his face, and as she stooped over him, her tears fell upon his 
forehead. 

The boy stirred and smiled in his sleep, as though these 
marks of pity and compassion had awakened some pleasant 
dream of a love and affection he had never known ; as a strain 
of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a silent place, or 
the odor of a flower, or even the mention of a familiar word, 
will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that 
never were, in this life, which vanish like a breath, and which 
some brief memory of a happier existence long gone by, would 
seem to have awakened, for no power of the human mind can 
ever recall them. 

" What can this mean ?" exclaimed the elder lady. "This 
poor child can never have been the pupil of robbers." 

" Vice," sighed the surgeon, replacing the curtain, "takes up 
her abode in many temples, and who can say that a fair outside 
shall not enshrine her ?" 

" But at so early an age," urged Rose. 

"My dear young lady," rejoined the surgeon, mournfully 
shaking his head, "crime, like death, is not confined to the old 
and withered alone. The youngest and fairest are too often its 
chosen victims.' 

"Bat, can you — oh, sir] can you really believe that this deli- 
cate boy has been the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts 
of society ?" said Rose, anxiously. 

•The surgeon shook his head in a manner which intimated that 
he feared it was very possible ; and observing that they might 
disturb the patient, led the way into an adjoining apartment. 

" But even if he has been wicked," pursued Rose, " think 
how young he is ; think that he may never have known a 
mother's love, or even the comfort of a home, and that ill-usage 
and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him to herd 
with the men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, 
for mercy's sake think of this before you let them drag this 
sick child to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of 



262 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

all his chances of amendment. Oh, as you love me, and know 
that I have never felt the want of parents in your goodness and 
affection, but that I might have done so, and might have been 
equally helpless and unprotected with this poor child, have pity 
upon him before it is too late !" 

"My dear love !" said the elder lady, as she folded the weep- 
ing girl to her bosom, " do you think I would harm a hair of 
his head?" 

" Oh, no !" replied Rose, eagerly, " not you, aunt, not you !" 

" No," said the old lady, with a trembling lip, "my days are 
drawing to their close, and may mercy be shown to me as I 
show it to others. "What can I do to save him, sir ?" 

"Let me think, ma'am," said the doctor, "let me think." 

Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets and took 
several turns up and down the room, often stopping and balanc- 
ing himself on his toes, and frowning frightfully. After various 
exclamations of "I've got it now," and "No, I haven't," and 
as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at length 
made a dead halt, and spoke as follows : 

" I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to 
bully Giles and that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. He 
is a faithful fellow and an old servant, I know ; but you can 
make it up to him in a thousand ways, and reward him for being 
such a good shot besides. You don't object to that?" 

" Unless there is some other way of preserving the child," 
replied Mrs. Maylie. 

" There is no other," said the doctor. " No other, take my 
word for it." 

" Then aunt invests you with full power," said Rose, smiling 
through her tears ; " but pray don't be harder upon the poor 
fellows than is indispensably necessary." 

"You seem to think," retorted the doctor, "that everybody 
is disposed to be hard-hearted to-day except yourself. I only 
hope, for the sake of the rising male sex generally, that you 
may be found in as vulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the 
very first eligible young fellow who appeals to your compassion ; 
and I wish / were a young fellow, that I might avail myself on 
the spot of such a favorable opportunity for doing so, as the 
present." 

" You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself," returned 
Rose, blushing. 

" Well," said the doctor, laughing heartily, " that is no very 
difficult matter. But to return to this boy : the great point of 
our agreement is yet to come. He will wake in an hour or so, 



OLIVER TWIST. 263 

I dare say ; and although I have told that thick-headed con- 
stable fellow down stairs that he mustn't be moved or spoken 
to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him with- 
out danger. Now, I make this stipulation — that I shall ex- 
amine him in your presence, and that if, from what he says, we 
judge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool reason, 
that he is a real and thorough bad one, (which is more than 
possible,) he shall be left to his fate, without any further inter- 
ference, on my part at all events." 

" Oh, no, aunt P' entreated Rose. 

" Oh, yes, aunt !" said the doctor. " Is it a bargain ?" 

"He cannot be hardened in vice," said Rose; "it is im- 
possible." 

" Very good," retorted the doctor ; " then so much the more 
reason for acceding to my proposition." 

Finally the treaty was entered into, and the parties thereto 
sat down to wait with some impatience until Oliver should wake. 

The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a 
longer trial than Mr. Losberne had led them to expect, for hour 
after hour passed on, and still Oliver slumbered heavily. It 
was evening, indeed, before the kind-hearted doctor brought 
them the intelligence that he had at length roused sufficiently 
to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and weak from 
loss of blood ; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to 
disclose something, that he deemed it better to give him the op- 
portunity than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next 
morning, which he should otherwise have done. 

The conference was a long one, for Oliver told them all his 
simple history, and was often compelled to stop by pain and 
want of strength. It was a solemn thing to hear, in the dark- 
ened room, the feeble voice of the sick child recounting a weary 
catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had brought 
upon him. Oh ! if, when we oppress and grind our fellow- 
creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences 
of human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds are rising 
slowly, it is true, but not less surely, to heaven, to pour their 
after-vengeance on our heads — if we heard but one instant in 
imagination the deep testimony of dead men's voices, which no 
power can stifle and no pride shut out, where would be the 
injury and injustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, 
that each day's life brings with it ? 

Oliver's pillow was smoothed by woman's hands that night, 
and loveliness and virtue watched him as he slept. He felt 
calm and happy, and could have died without a murmur. 



264 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



American and European Interests.— Webster. 

The striking attitude, too, in which we stand to the world 
around us — a topic to which, I fear, I advert too often, and 
dwell on too long — cannot be altogether omitted here. Neither 
individuals nor nations can perform their part well, until they 
understand and feel its importance, and comprehend and justly 
appreciate all the duties belonging to it. It is not to inflate 
national vanity, nor to swell a light and empty feeling of self- 
importance ; but it is that we may judge justly of our situation, 
and of our own duties, that I earnestly urge this consideration 
of our position, and our character, among the nations of the 
earth. It cannot be denied, but by those who would dispute 
against the sun, that with America, and in America, a new era 
commences in human affairs. This era is distinguished by free 
representative governments, by entire religious liberty, by im- 
proved systems of national intercourse, by a newly awakened 
and an unconquerable spirit of free inquiry, and by a diffusion 
of knowledge through the community, such as has been before 
altogether unknown and unheard of. America, America, our 
country, fellow- citizens, our own dear and native land, is insep- 
arably connected, fast bound up, in fortune, and by fate, with 
these great interests. If they fall, we fall with them ; if they 
stand, it will be because we have upholden them. Let us con- 
template, then, this connection, which binds the prosperity of 
others to our own ; and let us manfully discharge all the duties 
which it imposes. If we cherish the virtues and the principles 
of our fathers, Heaven will assist us to carry on the work of hu- 
man liberty and human happiness. Auspicious omens cheer us. 
Great examples are before us. Our own firmament now shines 
brightly upon our path. Washington is in the clear upper sky. 
Other stars have now joined the American constellation ; they 
circle round their centre, and the heavens beam with new light. 
Beneath this illumination, let us walk the course of life, and at 
its close devoutly commend our beloved country, the common 
parent of us all, to the Divine benignity. 



THE POWER OF LEGAL ELOQUENCE. 265 

Death of the Flowers,— Bryant. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of Availing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead : 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs," a beauteous sisterhood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side ; 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, 
And we Wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 



The Power of Legal Eloquence.— Original. 

On the successful application of Legal Eloquence very fre- 
quently depends the fortunes, the character and the life of 
clients. Let us take a scene from every-day life, where the in- 
fluence of Legal Eloquence may be witnessed in all the majesty 
of its power. You have been spectators in the solemn court 
of justice, where the pallid prisoner at the bar awaited in fever- 
ish anxiety the fiat of life, or death, from the lips of his 
12 



266 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

fellow man ! You have listened to the accumulative mass of 
evidence, that left no doubt of the guilt of the accused. And 
you have felt that no hope of escape remained for the hapless 
culprit ! The natural sympathies of the heart yearned in com- 
miseration, at the apparent certain doom of the criminal. You 
cast a hurried glance at the men, on whose decision the wretched 
victim of the law is to be acquitted or condemned, Alas! 
there is no hope from them. You read it intuitively in the 
firm and compressed lips ; in the rigidity of those stern mus- 
cles, that they intend conscientiously to fulfil their solemn oath, 
which compels an unwilling verdict against the prisoner ! But 
see ! the counsellor for the accused rises for the defense. The 
silence of the grave is not more profound than the stillness 
which now reigns in that crowded hall ! 

The able advocate has been carefully studying the whole 
scene, with his wary eye and the tact of an experienced artist. 
Its light and shade, its groupings, its prominent points, and its 
minor accessories, all, ALL are noted by him. The chief 
object of his scrutiny, however, has been that Jury Box ! Not 
a face there has escaped his analyzation ; not a heart there 
into which he has not been studying how to make a successful 
lodgment, by the aid of that eloquence which heretofore has 
proved a master key in his all-skilful hand ! How subdued and 
deprecating are the tones in which he commences his exordium ; 
and how deep is the look of sterner determination on the faces 
of those twelve judges appointed by the law ! He notes this 
with his practised eye, and at once assumes a firmness of tone 
and a sternness of demeanor in unison with their own. He 
boldly combats the evidence, point by point, with all the skill 
of experienced legal acumen ; slurring over all that bears con- 
clusively on his client, and arraying, in broad relief, the doubtful 
and extenuating points. You have followed the able counsellor, 
with earnest interest, until doubt after doubt has been dis- 
pelled. Again, you cast your eyes to that Jury Box, 
where sit the disposers of life or death. Do they feel as you 
do ? Are they under the same magical influence ? They are ! 
Indecision is stamped upon their countenances. The able 
advocate now commences his peroration. His voice swells with 
entreaty, or becomes tremulous with feeling. He appeals in 
tones which strike on every heart, for that mercy which is the 
attribute of Divinity. He pleads for a life which, taken, cannot 
be recalled ! He invokes those twelve judges as men, as 
fathers, hastening to the same bourne to which they can, in 
one moment, consign the prisoner ; if they have a doubt, to give 



A TALE OF TERROR. 261 

the hapless culprit the benefit of that doubt, as allowed by- 
law. His voice becomes choked with emotion; his auditors 
are bathed in tears ; sobs resound through the crowded hall ; 
and the before unyielding depositories of the prisoner's doom 
are now passive instruments in the hands of the triumphant 
counsellor, ready to record a verdict of acquittal, obedient 
to his dictation ! 



A. Tale of Terror* — Paul Louis Courier. 

I was once travelling in Calabria ; a land of wicked people, 
who, I believe, hate every one, and particularly the French ; 
the reason why, would take long to tell you, suffice it to say 
that they mortally hate us, and that one gets on very badly 
when one falls into their hands. I had for a companion a 
young man with a face — my faith, like the gentleman that we saw 
at Kincy ; you remember ? and better still perhaps — I don't say 
so to interest you, but because it is a fact. In these mountains 
the roads are precipices ; our horses got on with much diffi- 
culty ; my companion went first ; a path which appeared to 
him shorter and more practicable led us astray. It was my 
fault. Ought I to have trusted to a head only twenty years old ? 
Whilst daylight lasted we tried to find our way through the 
wood, but the more we tried, the more bewildered we became, 
and it was pitch dark when we arrived at a very black-looking 
house. We entered, not without fear, but what could we do ? 
We found a whole family of colliers at table ; they immediately 
invited us to join them ; my young man did no,t wait to be 
pressed : there we were eating and drinking ; he at least, for I 
was examining the place and the appearance of our hosts. Our 
hosts had quite the look of colliers, but the house you would 
have taken for an arsenal ; there was nothing but guns, pistols, 
swords, knives and cutlasses. Everything displeased. me, and I 
saw very well that I displeased them. My companion, on the 
contrary, was quite one of the family, he laughed and talked 
with them, and with an imprudence that I ought to have fore- 
seen, (but to what purpose, if it was decreed,) he told at once 
where we came from, where we were going, and that we were 
Frenchmen. Just imagine ! amongst our most mortal enemies, 
alone, out of our road, so far from all human succor ! and then, 



268 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

to omit nothing that might ruin us, he played the rich man, 
promised to give the next morning, as a remuneration to these 
people, and to our guides, whatever they wished. Then he 
spoke of his portmanteau, begging them to take care of it, and 
to put it at the head of his bed ; he did not w T ish, he said, for 
any other pillow. Oh, youth, youth, you are to be pitied! 
Cousin, one would have thought we carried the crown diamonds. 
What caused him so much solicitude about this portmanteau 
was his mistress's letters. Supper over, they left us. Our hosts 
slept below, we in the upper room, where we had supped. A 
loft raised some seven or eight feet, which was reached by a 
ladder, was the resting-place that awaited us ; a sort of nest, 
into which we were to introduce ourselves by creeping under 
« joists loaded with provisions for the year. My companion 
climbed up alone, and already nearty asleep, laid himself down 
with his head upon the precious portmanteau. Having deter- 
mined to sit up, I made a good fire, and seated myself by the 
side of it. The night, which had been undisturbed, was nearly 
over, and I began to reassure myself ; when, about the time that 
I thought the break of day could not be very far off, I heard 
our host and his wife talking and disputing below ; and putting 
my ear to the chimney which communicated with the one in the 
lower room, I perfectly distinguished these words spoken by the 
husband: "Well, let us see, must they both be killed?" To 
which the wife replied, " Yes ;" and I heard no more. How 
shall I go on ? I stood scarcely breathing, my body cold as 
marble ; to have seen me, you could hardly have known if I 
were alive or dead. Good Heavens ! when I think of it now ! 
— We two almost without weapons, against twelve or fifteen 
who had so many ! and my companion dead with sleep and 
fatigue ! To call him, or make a noise, I dared not ; to escape 
alone was impossible; the window was not high, but below 
were two large dogs howling like wolves. In what an agony I 
was, imagine if you can. At the end of a long quarter of an 
hour, I heard some one on the stairs, and, through the crack of 
the door, I saw the father, his lamp in one hand, and in the 
other one of his large knives. He came up, his wife after him, 
I was behind the door ; he opened it, but before he came in he 
put down the lamp, which his wife took. He then entered, 
barefoot, and from outside the woman said to him, in a low 
voice, shading the light of the lamp with her hand, " Softly, go 
softly." When he got to the ladder, he mounted it, his knife 
between his teeth, and getting up as high as the bed — the poor 
young man lying with his throat bare — with one hand he took 



THE CHARIOT RACE. . 2 69 

his knife, and with the other — Oh ! cousin — he seized a ham, 
which hung from the ceiling, cut a slice from it, and retired as 
he had come. The door was closed again, the lamp disap- 
peared, and I was left alone with my reflections. 

As soon as day appeared, all the family making a great noise 
came to awaken us as we had requested. They brought us 
something to eat, and gave us a very clean, and a very good 
breakfast, I assure you. Two capons formed part of it, of which 
we must, said our hostess, take away one and eat the other. 
When I saw them, I understood the meaning of those terrible 
words, "Must they both be killed?" and I think, cousin, you 
have enough penetration to guess now what they signified. 

Oblige me, cousin, do not tell this story. In the first place, 
as you see, I do not play a good part in it ; next, you would 
spoil it. Stay, I do not natter you, but your face would destroy 
the effect of my tale. Without boasting, I have just the coun- 
tenance to relate a fearful story. But as for you, if you wish 
to tell a story, choose a subject that suits your face— Psyche, 
for example. 



The Chariot Race*— Sophocles. 

They took their stand, where the appointed judges 
Had cast their lots and ranged the rival cars. 
Rang out the brazen trump ! Away they bound. 
Cheer the hot steeds and shake the slackened reins ; 
As with a body, the large space is filled 
With the huge clangor of the rattling cars : 
High whirl aloft the dust-clouds ; blent together 
Each presses each — and the lash rings — and loud 
Snort the wild steeds, and from their fiery breath, 
Along their manes, and down the circling wheels, 
Scatter the flaking foam. Orestes still, 
Aye, as he swept around the perilous pillar 
Last in the course, wheeled in the rushing axle ; 
The left rein curbed — that on the dexter hand 
Flung loose. So on erect the chariots rolled ! 
Sudden the CEnian's fierce and headlong steeds 
Broke from the bit — and, as the seventh time now 
The course was circled, on the Lybian car 
Dashed their wild fronts : then order changed to ruin : 
Car crashed on car — the wide Crisssean plain 
Was, sea-like, strewn with wrecks ; the Athenian saw, 
Slackened his speed, and, wheeling round the marge, 



270 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Unscathed and skilful, in the midmost space, 
Left the wild tumult of that tossing storm. 
Behind, Orestes, hitherto the last, 
Had yet kept back his coursers for the close ; 
Now one sole rival left — on, on he flew, 
And the sharp sound of the impelling scourge 
Rang in the keen ears of the flying steeds — 
He nears — he reaches — they are side by side ; 
Now one — now th' other — by a length the victor. 
The courses all are past — the wheels erect- 
All safe — when, as the hurrying coursers round 
The fatal pillar dashed, the wretched boy 
Slackened the left rein : — On the column's edge 
Crashed the frail axle — headlong from the car, 
Caught and all meshed within the reins he fell ; 
And, masterless, the mad steeds raged along ! 

* * # * * 

Loud from that mighty multitude arose 
A shriek — a shout ! But yesterday such deeds — 
To-day such doom ! — Now whirled upon the earth ; 
Now his limbs dashed aloft, they dragged him — those 
Wild horse's — till, all gory, from the wheels 
Released — and no man, not his nearest friends, 
Could in that mangled corpse have traced Orestes. 



The Convict Ship.—T. K. Hervisy. 



Morn on the waters ! and, purple and bright, 

Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ! 

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 

See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, 

And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale ! 

The winds come around her, in murmur and song, 

And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along! 

Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds, 

And the sailor sings gayly aloft in the shrouds 1 

Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, 

Over the waters — away, and away ; 

Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, 

Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! — 

Who — as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, 

Music around her, and sunshine on high — 

Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, 

Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking, below 1 

Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on high, 
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky ; 



EUROPE AND AMERICA. 2«T1 

Treading its depths, in the power of her might, 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light ! 
Look to the waters ! — asleep on her breast, 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? 
Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain ! 
Who — as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep — as the moon in the sky — 
A phantom of beauty ! — could deem, with a sigh, 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, 
And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within ! 
"Who — as he watches her silently gliding — 
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, 
Hearts that are parted and broken forever ! 
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, 
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ! 

'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, 

Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song ! 

Gayly we glide, in the glaze of the world, 

With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled ; 

All gladness and glory to wondering eyes, 

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs ! — 

Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 

As the smiles we put on — just to cover our tears ; 

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, 

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below : 

While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore 

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er ! 



Europe and America,— Webster. 

In many respects, sir, the European and the American na- 
tions are alike. They are alike Christian states, civilized states, 
and commercial states. They have access to the same common 
fountains of intelligence ; they all draw from those sources 
which belong to the whole civilized world. In knowledge and 
letters — in the arts of peace and war — they differ in degrees, 
but they bear, nevertheless, a general resemblance. On the 
other hand, in matters of government and social institution, the 
nations on this continent are founded upon principles which 
never did prevail, in considerable extent, either at any other 
time, or in any other place. There has never been presented 
to the mind of man a more interesting subject of contemplation 



2Y2 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

than the establishment of so many nations in America, partaking 
in the civilization and in the arts of the Old World, but having 
left behind them those cumbrous institutions which had their 
origin in a dark and military age. Whatsoever European expe- 
rience has developed favorable to the freedom and the happiness 
of man ; whatsoever European genius has invented for his im- 
provement or gratification ; whatsoever of refinement or polish 
the culture of European society presents for his adoption and 
enjoyment — all this is offered to man in America, with the addi- 
tional advantages of the full power of erecting forms of govern- 
ment on free and simple principles, without overturning institu- 
tions suited to times long passed, but too strongly supported, 
either by interests or prejudices, to be shaken without convul- 
sions. This unprecedented state of things presents the happiest 
of all occasions for an attempt to establish national intercourse 
upon improved principles ; upon principles tending to peace and 
the mutual prosperity of nations. In this respect America, the 
whole of America, has a new career before her. If we look 
back on the history of Europe, we see how great a portion of 
the last two centuries her states have been at war for interests 
connected mainly with her feudal monarchies ; wars for particu- 
lar dynasties ; wars to support or defeat particular successions ; 
wars to enlarge or curtail the dominions of particular crowns ; 
wars to support or to dissolve family alliances ; wars, in fine, to 
enforce or to resist religious intolerance. What long and bloody 
chapters do these not fill, in the history of European politics ! 
Who does not see, and who does not rejoice to see, that Amer- 
ica has a glorious chance of escaping, at least, these causes of 
contention ? Who does not see, and who does not rejoice to 
see, that, on this continent, under other forms of government, 
we have before us the noble hope of being able, by the mere 
influence of civil liberty and religious toleration, to dry up these 
outpouring fountains of blood, and to extinguish these consuming 
fires of war. The general opinion of the age favors such hopes 
and such prospects. There is a growing disposition to treat the 
intercourse of nations more like the useful intercourse of friends ; 
philosophy — just views of national advantage, good sense, and 
the dictates of a common religion, and an increasing conviction 
that war is not the interest of the human race — all concur to 
increase the interest created by this new accession to the list of 
nations. 



MARK ANTONY'S ORATION. 273 

Brutus*s Oration,— Shakspeare. 

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause; 
and be silent, that you may hear : believe me for mine honor ; 
and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe : censure 
me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may the 
better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend 
of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less 
than his. If then that friend demand, why Brutus rose against 
Caesar, this is my answer — Not that I loved Caesar less, but that 
I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and 
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen ? 
As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I 
rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honor him : but, as he was 
ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for his love ; joy, for his 
fortune ; honor, for his valor ; and death, for his ambition. Who 
is here so base, that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for 
him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be 
a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is 
here so vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for 
him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 

Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar, 
than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is en- 
rolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was 
worthy ; nor his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death. 
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who, though 
he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dy- 
ing, a place in the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? 
With this, I depart ; That, as I slew my best lover for the good 
of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall 
please my country to need my death. 



Mark Antony's Oration.— Shakspeare. 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears 
I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him. 
The evil, that men do, lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones ; 
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Ceesar was ambitious : 
12* 



274 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 

And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 

(For Brutus is an honorable man ; 

So are they all, all honorable men ;) 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 

But Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see, that on the Lupercal, 

I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause ; 

What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? 

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 

And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ; 

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 

You all do know this mantle : I remember 

The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 

'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ; 

That day he overcame the Nervii — 

Look ! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through : 

See, what a rent the envious Casca made : 

Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; 

And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 

Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it ; 

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 

If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : 

Judge, you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him ! 

This was the most unkindest cut of all : 

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 

Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 

Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart ; 

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 

Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 

0, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 

Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 



THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 275 

O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel ^ 

The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 

Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold 

Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, 

Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors. 

They, that have done this deed, are honorable ; 

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 

That made them do't ; they are wise and honorable, 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts : 

I am no orator, as Brutus is : 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, 

That love my friend ; and that they know full well 

That gave me public leave to speak of him. 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 

To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 

I tell you that, which you yourselves do know : 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 

And bid them speak for me : But were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 

In every wound of Caesar, that should move 

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 



The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth— Hazlitt. 

The literature of this age then, I would say, was strongly 
influenced, (among other causes,) first by the spirit of Christian- 
ity, and secondly by the spirit of Protestantism. 

The effects of the Reformation on politics and philosophy 
may be seen in the writings and history of the next and of the 
following ages. They are still at work, and will continue to be 
so . The effects on the poetry of the time were chiefly confined 
to the moulding of the character, and giving a powerful im- 
pulse to the intellect of the country. The immediate use or 
application that was made of religion to subjects of imagination 
and fiction was not (from an obvious ground of separation) so 
direct or frequent, as that which was made of the classical and 
romantic literature. 

For, much about the same time, the rich and fascinating 
stores of the Greek and Roman mythology, and those of the 
romantic poetry of Spain and Italy, were eagerly explored by 
the curious, and thrown open in translations to the admiring 
gaze of the vulgar. This last circumstance could hardly have 
afforded so much advantage to the poets of that day, who were 



276 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

themselves, in fact, the translators-, as it shows the general curi- 
osity and increasing interest in such subjects as a prevailing 
feature of the times. There were translations of Tasso by Fair- 
faix, and of Ariosto by Harrington,, of Homer and Hesiod by 
Chapman, and of Virgil long before, and Ovid soon after ; there 
was Sir Thomas North's translation of Plutarch, of which Shak- 
speare has made such admirable use in his Coriolanus and Julius 
Caesar; and Ben Jonson's tragedies of Cataline and Sejanus 
may themselves be considered as almost literal translations into 
verse of Tacitus, Sallust, and Cicero's Orations in his consul- 
ship. Petrarch, Dante, the satirist Aretine, Machiavel, Castig- 
lion, and others, were familiar to our writers, and they make oc- 
casional mention of some few French authors, as Ronsard and Du 
Bartas ; for the French literature had not at this stage arrived 
at its Augustan period, and it was the imitation of their litera- 
ture a century afterwards, when it had arrived at its greatest 
height, (itself copied from the Greek and Latin,) that enfeebled 
and impoverished our own. But of the time that we are con- 
sidering it might be said, without much extravagance, that every 
breath that blew, that every wave that rolled to our shores, 
brought with it some new accession to our knowledge, which 
was engrafted on the national genius. 

***** * * 

What also gave an unusual impetus to the mind of men at 
this period was the discovery of the New World, and the read- 
ing of voyages and travels. Green islands and golden sands 
seemed to arise, as by enchantment, out of the bosom of the 
watery waste, and invite the cupidity, or wing the imagination 
of the dreaming speculator. Fairy-land was realized in new 
and unknown worlds. " Fortunate fields, and groves, and flow- 
ery vales, thrice happy isles," were found floating, " like those 
Hesperian gardens famed of old," beyond Atlantic seas, as dropt 
from the zenith. The people, the soil, the clime, everything 
gave unlimited scope to the curiosity of the traveller and reader. 
Other manners might be said to enlarge the bounds of know- 
ledge, and new mines of wealth were tumbled at our feet. It is 
from a voyage to the Straits of Magellan that Shakspeare has 
taken the hint of Prospero's Enchanted Island, and of the sav- 
age Caliban with his god Setebos. Spenser seems to have 
had the same feeling in his mind in the production of his Faery 
Queen. 



Fancy's air-drawn pictures are after history's waking dream 



THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 277 

showed like clouds over mountains ; and from the romance of 
real life to the idlest fiction the transition seemed easy. Shak- 
speare, as well as others of his time, availed himself of the old 
chronicles, and of the traditions or fabulous inventions contained 
in them in such ample measure, and which had not yet been ap- 
propriated to the purposes of poetry or the drama. The stage 
was a new thing ; and those who had to supply its demands laid 
their hands upon whatever came within their reach ; they were 
not particular as to the means, so that they gained the end. 
Lear is founded upon an old ballad ; Othello on an Italian novel ; 
Hamlet on a Danish, and Macbeth on a Scotch tradition ; one 
of which is to be found in Saxo-Grammaticus, and the last in 
Hollinshed. The ghost-scenes and the witches in each are 
authenticated in the old Gothic history. There was also this 
connecting link between the poetry of this age and the super- 
natural traditions of a former one, that the belief in them was 
still extant, and in full force and visible operations among the 
vulgar (to say no more) in the time of our authors. The appal- 
ling and wild chimeras of superstition and ignorance, " those 
bodiless creations that ecstasy is very cunning in," were inter- 
woven with existing manners and opinions, and all their effects 
on the passions of terror -or pity might be gathered from com- 
mon and actual observation — might be discerned in the workings 
of the face, the expressions of the tongue, the writhings of a 
troubled conscience. " Your face, my Thane, is as a book 
where men may read strange matters." Midnight and secret 
murders too, from the imperfect state of the police, were more 
common; and the ferocious and brutal manners that would 
stamp the brow of the hardened ruffian or hired assassin, more 
incorrigible and undisguised ; the portraits of Tyrrel and For- 
rest were, no doubt, done from the life. We find that the rav- 
ages of the plague, the destructive rage of fire, the poisoned 
chalice, lean famine, the serpent's mortal sting, and the fury of 
wild beasts were the common topics of their poetry, as they 
were common occurrences in more remote periods of history. 
They were the strong ingredients thrown into the cauldron of 
tragedy, to make it " thick and slab." Man's life was (as it 
appears to me) more full of traps and pitfalls ; of hair-breadth 
accidents by flood and field ; more waylaid by sudden and start- 
ling evils ; it trod on the brink of hope and fear ; stumbled upon 
fate unawares ; while the imagination, close behind it, caught at, 
and clung to, the shape of danger, or " snatched a wild and 
fearful joy" from its escape. The accidents of nature were less 
provided against ; the excesses of the passions and of lawless 



278 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST.' . 

power were less regulated, and produced more strange and des- 
perate catastrophes. The tales of Boccaccio are founded on the 
great pestilence of Florence, Fletcher, the poet, died of the 
plague, and Marlow was stabbed in a tavern quarrel. The 
strict authority of parents, the inequality of ranks, or the hered- 
itary feuds between different families, made more unhappy 
loves or matches. 

" The course of true love never did run even." 

Again, the heroic and martial spirit which breathes in our 
elder writers was yet in considerable activity in the reign of 
Elizabeth. " The age of chivalry was not then quite gone, nor 
the glory of Europe extinguished forever." Jousts and tourna- 
ments were still common with the nobility in England and in 
foreign countries ; Sir Philip Sidney was particularly distin- 
guished for his proficiency in these exercises, (and indeed fell a 
martyr to his ambition as a soldier,) and the gentle Surrey was 
still more famous, on the same account, just before him. It is 
true, the general use of fire-arms gradually superseded the ne- 
cessity of skill in the sword, or bravery in the person ; and as a 
symptom of the rapid degeneracy in this respect, we find Sir 
John Suckling soon after boasting of himself as one — 

" Who prized black eyes, and a lucky hit 
At bowls, above all the trophies of wit." 

It was comparatively an age of peace, 

" Like strength reposing on his own right arm ;" 

but the sound of civil combat might still be heard in the dis- 
tance, the spear glittered to the eye of memory, or the clash- 
ing of armor struck on the imagination of the ardent and the 
young. 



A Romance about Milton.— Sm William Jones. 

I set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a 
place where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all 
probability, he composed several of his earliest productions. It 
is a small village, situated on a pleasant hill, about three miles 



A ROMANCE ABOUT MILTON. 279 

from Oxford, and called Forest- Hill, because it formerly lay- 
contiguous to a forest, which has since been cut down. The 
poet chose this place of retirement after his first marriage, and 
he describes the beauty of his retreat in that fine passage of his 
IS Allegro. 

" Sometimes walking not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 
* * * * 

While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistlos o'er the furrowed land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe ; 
And every shepherd tells his tale, 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
While the landscape round it measures. 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 
Towers and battlements it sees, 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
* ■> * * -..-. .* 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks," &c. 

It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the 
day, to hear all the rural sounds and see all the objects men- 
tioned in this description ; but by a pleasing concurrence of 
circumstances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, 
with the music of the mower and his scythe ; we saw the plough- 
man intent upon his labor, and the milkmaid returning from her 
country employment. 

As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the 
agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, 
gave us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot 
whence Milton undoubtedly took most of his images ; it is on the 
top of the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on 
all sides ; the distant mountains that seemed to support the 
clouds, the villages and turrets, partly shaded by trees of the 
finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that sur- 
rounded them, the dark plains and meadows, of a grayish color, 
where the sheep were feeding at large ; in short, the view of the 
streams and rivers, convinced us that there was not a single use- 
less or idle word in the above-mentioned description, but that it 



280 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will 
this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, 
receive an additional beauty from its exactness. After we had 
walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted 
ground, we returned to the village. 

The poet's house was close to the church ; the greatest part 
of it has been pulled down, and what remains, belongs to an ad- 
jacent farm. I am informed that several papers in Milton's own 
hand were found by the gentleman who was last in possession 
of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current 
among the villagers ; one of them showed us a ruinous Wall that 
made part of his chamber ; and I was much pleased with an- 
other, who had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected 
him by the title of the poet. 

It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are 
famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the 
Penseroso. Most of the cottage-windows are overgrown with 
sweetbriers, vines, and honeysuckles ; and that Milton's habita- 
tion had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his 
description of the lark bidding him good-morrow : 

" Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine," 

for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the eg- 
lantine, though that word is commonly used for the sweetbrier, 
which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. If I 
ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford, in the summer, I shall 
be inclined to hire and repair this venerable mansion, and to 
make a festival for a circle of friends, in honor of Milton, the 
most perfect scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our 
country ever produced. 



Thanatopsis.—BviYkm. 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language. For his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 



THANATOPSIS. 281 

And gentle sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 

Go forth unto the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, wbile from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resol-ved to earth again ; 

And lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, ( 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods ; rivers that move 

In majesty ; and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadow green ; and poured round all, 

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 

Save his own dashings ; yet — the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone, 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou fall 

Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 



282 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
"Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom, ! yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who, in their turn, shall follow them. 
So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



The Tragedy of the Pyrenees,— R. Monckton Milnes. 

The marriage blessing on their brows, 

Across the Channel seas 
And lands of gay Garonne, they reach 

The pleasant Pyrenees — 
He, into boyhood born again, 

A son of joy and life — 
And she a happy English girl, 

A happier English wife. 

They loiter not where Argeles, 

The chestnut-crested plain 
Unfolds its robe of green and gold 

In pasture, grape, and grain ; 
But on and up, where Nature's heart 

Beats strong amid the hills, 
They pause, contented with the wealth 

That either bosoms fills. 

There is a lake, a small round lake, 

High on the mountain's breast, 
The child of rains and melted snows, 

The torrent's summer rest — 



THE TRAGEDY OF THE PYRENEES. 283 

A mirror where the veteran rocks 

May glass their peaks and scars, 
A nether sky where breezes break 

The sunlight into stars. 

Oh ! gaily shone that little lake, 

And Nature, sternly fair, 
Put on a sparkling countenance 

To greet that merry pair ; 
How light from stone to stone they leaped, 

How trippingly they ran; 
To scale the rock and gain the marge 

Was all a moment's span ! 

" See, dearest, this primeval boat, 

So quaint and rough, I deem 
Just such an one did Charon ply 

Across the Stygian stream : 
Step in — I will your Charon be, 

And you a Spirit bold — 
I was a famous rower once 

In college days of old. 

" The clumsy oar ! the laggard boat ! 

How slow we move along — 
The work is harder than I thought — 

A song, my love, a song !" 
Then, standing up, she carolled out 

So blithe and sweet a strain, 
That the long-silent cliffs were glad 

To peal it back again. 

He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down, 

And rose in careless pride, 
And swayed in cadence to the song, 

The boat from side to side ; 
Then, clasping hand in loving hand, 

They danced a childish round, 
And felt as safe in that mid-lake 

As on the firmest ground. 

One poise too much ! — He headlong fell — 

She, stretching out to save 
A feeble arm, was borne adown 

Within that glittering grave — 
One moment, and the gush went forth 

Of music-mingled laughter — 
The struggling splash and deathly shriek 

Were there the instant after. 

Her weaker head above the flood, 

That quick engulfed the strong, 
Like some enchanted water-flower, 

Waved pitifully long — 



284 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Long seemed the low and lonely wail 
Athwart the tide to fade ; 

Alas ! that there were some to hear, 
But never one to aid. 

Yet not, alas ! if Heaven revered 

The freshly-spoken vow, 
And willed that what was then made one 

Should not be sundered now — 
If she was spared, by that sharp stroke, 

Love's most unnatural doom. 
The future lorn and unconsoled, 

The una voided tomb ! 

But weep, ye very rocks ! for those, 

Who, on their native shore, 
Await the letters of dear news, 

That shall arrive no more ; 
One letter from a stranger hand 

Few words are all the need ; 
And then the funeral of the heart, 

The course of useless speed ! 

The presence of the cold dead wood, 

The single mark and sign 
Of her so loved and beautiful, 

That handiwork divine ! 
The weary search for his fine form 

That in the depth would linger, 
And late success — Oh ! leave the ring 

Upon that faithful finger. 

And if in life there lie the seed 

Of real enduring being — 
If love and truth be not decreed 

To perish unforeseeing — 
This youth, the seal of death has stampt, 

Now time can wither never, 
This hope, that sorrow might have dampt, 

Is fresh and strong for ever. 



The Murder and the Murderer's Doom,— Webster. 

An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own 
house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly 
murder, for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters 
and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of mur- 
der, if he will show it as it has been exhibited in an example, 



THE MURDER AND THE MURDERER'S DOOM. 285 

where such example was last to have been looked for, in the 
very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the 
grim visage of Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face 
black with settled hate, and the bloodshot eye emitting livid 
fires of malice. Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, 
bloodless demon ; a picture in repose, rather than in action ; not 
so much^n example of human nature, in its depravity, and in 
its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal nature, a fiend, in the or- 
dinary display and development of his character. 

The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and 
steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. 
The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the 
whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined 
victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to 
whom sleep was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the night 
held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, 
through the window already prepared, into an unoccupied 
apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half 
lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and 
reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he moves the lock, 
by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on its hinges without 
noise ; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The 
room was uncommonly open to the admission of light. The 
face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer, and 
the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged 
temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given! 
and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the 
repose of sleep to the repose of death ! It is the assassin's pur- 
pose to make sure work ; and he yet plies the dagger, though 
it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the 
bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail 
in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds 
of the poniard ! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for 
the pulse ! He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no 
longer ! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He retreats, 
retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he 
came in, and escapes. He has done the murder — no eye has 
seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it 
is safe ! 

Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret 
can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither 
nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. 
Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, 
and beholds everything, as in the splendor of noon — such 



286 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

secrets of guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. 
True it is, generally speaking, that " murder will out." True 
it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shed- 
ding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Espe- 
cially in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery 
must come, and will come sooner or later. A tr^ous^pd eyes 
turn at once to explore every man, everything, every circum- 
stance connected with the time and place ; a thousand ears 
catch every whisper ; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell 
on the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the 
slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, the 
guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or 
rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to 
itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not 
what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the 
residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a 
torment, which it dares not acknowledge to God nor man. A 
vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assist- 
ance, either from heaven or earth. The secret which the mur- 
derer possesses soon comes to possess him , and like the evil 
spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whith- 
ersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his 
throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world 
sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its 
workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become 
his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his cour- 
age, it conquers his prudence. When suspicions, from without, 
begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to entangle 
him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst 
forth. It must be confessed, it will be confessed, there is no 
refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession. 



Avalanches of the Jungfrau.—Gc. B. Cheever. 

Ordinarily, in a sunny day at noon, the avalanches are falling 
on the Jungfrau about every ten minutes, with the roar of thun- 
der, but they are much more seldom visible, and sometimes the 
traveller crosses the Wengern Alp without witnessing them at 
all. But we were so very highly favored as to see two of the 






AVALANCHES OF THE JUNGFRAU. 28*7 

i* 

grandest avalanches possible in the course of about an hour, 
between twelve o'clock and two. One cannot command any 
language to convey an adequate idea of their magnificence. You 
are standing far below, gazing up to where the great disc of the 
glittering Alp cuts the heavens, and drinking in the influence 
of the silent scene around. Suddenly an enormous mass of 
snow and ice, in itself a mountain, seems to move ; it breaks 
from the toppling outmost mountain ridge of snow, where it is 
hundreds of feet in depth, and in its first fall of perhaps two 
thousand feet, is broken into millions of fragments. As you 
first see the flash of distant artillery by night, then hear the 
roar, so here you may see the white flashing mass majestically 
bowing, then hear the astounding din. A cloud of dusty, misty, 
dry snow rises into the air from the concussion, forming a white 
volume of fleecy smoke, or misty light, from the bosom of which 
thunders forth the icy torrent in its second prodigious fall over 
the rocky battlements. The eye follows it delighted as it ploughs 
through the path which preceding avalanches have worn, till it 
comes to the brink of a vast ridge of bare rock, perhaps more 
than two thousand feet perpendicular. Then pours the whole 
cataract over the gulf with a still louder roar of echoing thunder, 
to which nothing but the noise of Niagara in its sublimity is 
comparable. Nevertheless, you may think of the tramp of an 
army of elephants, of the roar of multitudinous cavalry march- 
ing to battle, of the whirlwind tread of ten thousand bisons 
sweeping across the prairie, of the tempest surf of ocean beat- 
ing and shaking the continent, of the sound of torrent floods or of 
a numerous host, or of the voice of the Trumpet on Sinai, exceed- 
ing loud, and waxing louder and louder, so that all the people 
in the camp trembled, or of the rolling orbs of that fierce chariot 
described by Milton, 

" Under whose burning wheels 
The steadfast empyrean shook throughout." 

It is with such a mighty shaking tramp that the avalanche down 
thunders. Another fall of still greater depth ensues, over a 
second similar castellated ridge or reef in the face of the moun- 
tain, with an awful majestic slowness, and a tremendous crash, 
in its concussion, awakening again the reverberating peals of 
thunder. Then the torrent roars on to another smaller fall, till 
at length it reaches a mighty groove of snow and ice, like the 
slide down the Pilatus, of which Playfair has given so powerfully 
graphic a description. Here its progress is slower, and last of 



288 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

all you listen to the roar of the falling fragments as they drop 
out of sight with a dead weight into the bottom of the gulf, to 
rest there for ever. Now figure to yourself a cataract like that 
of Niagara, (for I should judge the volume of one of these ava- 
lanches to be probably every way superior in bulk to the whole 
of the Horse-shoe fall,) poured in foaming grandeur, not merely 
over one great precipice of two hundred feet, but over the suc- 
cessive ridgy precipices of two or three thousand, in the face of 
a mountain eleven thousand feet high, and tumbling, crashing, 
thundering down, with a continuous din of far greater sublimity 
than the sound of the grandest cataract. Placed on the slope 
of the Wengern Alp, right opposite the whole visible side of the 
Jungfrau, we have enjoyed two of these mighty spectacles, at 
about half an hour's interval between them. The first was the 
most sublime, the second the most beautiful. The roar of the 
falling mass begins to be heard the moment it is loosened from 
the mountain; it pours on with, the sound of avast body of 
rushing water ; then comes the first great concussion, a booming 
crash of thunders, breaking on the still air in mid-heaven ; your 
breath is suspended as you listen and look ; the mighty glittering 
mass shoots headlong over the main precipice, and the fall is so 
great that it produces to the eye that impression of dread ma- 
jestic slowness, of which I have spoken, though it is doubtless 
more rapid than Niagara. But if you should see the cataract 
of Niagara itself coming down five thousand feet above you in 
the air, there would be the same impression. The image re- 
mains in the mind, and can never fade from it ; it is as if you 
had seen an alabaster cataract from heaven. 



Nature's Nobleman.— Tuppek. 

Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill, 

Where pleasure itself cannot please ; 
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still 

Affects to be quite at its ease ; 
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank, 

The freest is first in the band, 
And Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 

Is a man with his heart in his hand ! 

Fearless in honesty, gentle yet just, 
He warmly can love — and can hate, 

Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust 
To Fashion's intolerant state : 



THE UNIVERSAL HYMN OF NATURE. 289 

For best in good breeding, and highest in rank, 

Though lowly or poor in the land, 
Is Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 

The man with his heart in his hand ! 

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense, 

His impulses, simple and true, 
Yet tempered by judgment, and taught by good sense, 

And cordial with me, and with you : 
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank, 

It is you, man ! or you, man ! who stand . 
Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 

A man with his heart in his hand ! 



Abou Ben Adhem.— Leigh Hunt. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 

And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



The Universal Hymn of Nature.— Thomson. 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and lova 
13 



290 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ;. 

Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 

And every sense, and every heart is joy. 

Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months. 

"With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 

Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : 

And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks : 

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 

By brooks and groves, in hollow- whispering gales, 

Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, 

And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 

In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 

Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 

Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 

Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore, 

And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine 

Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 

Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 

Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 

Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 

And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 

That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 

Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand, 

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 

Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring ; 

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 

Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 

And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 

With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join, every living soul, 

Beneath the spacious temple of the sky ; 

In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 

One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales, 

Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes ; 

Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms, 

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely- waving pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 

Who shake th' astonished world, lift high to heaven 

The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills - 

And let me catch it as I muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 

Along the vale : and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 

In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 



EXCELLENCE THE REWARD OF LABOR. 291 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him ; 

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 

As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 

Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

Erom world to world, the vital ocean round, 

On Nature write with every beam His praise. 



Excellence the Reward of Labor.— Wirt. 

The education, gentlemen, moral and intellectual, of every 
individual, must be, chiefly, his own work. Rely upon it, that 
the ancients were right — Quisque suae fortunce faber — both in 
morals and intellect, we give their final shape to our own char- 
acters, and thus become, emphatically, the architects of our own 
fortunes. How else could it happen, that young men, who have 
had precisely the same opportunities, should be continually pre- 
senting us with such different results, and rushing to such 
opposite destinies ? Difference of talent will not solve it, because 
that difference is very often in favor of the disappointed candi- 
date. You shall see issuing from the walls of the same college 
— nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same family — two young 
men, of whom the one shall be admitted to be a genius of high 
order, the other, scarcely above the point of mediocrity ; yet you 
shall see the genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity 
and wretchedness ; while on the other hand, you shall observe 
the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up the hill of life, 
gaining steadfast footing at every step, and mounting, at length, 
to eminence and distinction, an ornament to his family, a blessing 
to his country. Now, whose work is this ? Manifestly their 
own. They are the architects of their respective fortunes. The 
best seminary of learning that can open its portals to you, can 
do no more than to afford you the opportunity of instruction ; 
but it must depend, at last, on yourselves, whether you will be 
instructed or not, or to what point you will push your instruc- 
tion. And of this be assured — I speak, from observation, a 
certain truth — there is no excellence without great labor. It is 



292 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the fiat of fate, from which no power of genius can absolve you. 
Genius, unexerted, is like the poor moth that flutters around a 
candle till it scorches itself to death. If genius be desirable at 
all, it is only of that great and magnanimous kind, which, like 
the condor of South America, pitches from the summit of Chim- 
borazo, above the clouds, and sustains itself, at pleasure, in that 
empyreal region, with an energy rather invigorated than weak- 
ened by the effort. It is this capacity for high and long- continued 
exertion — this vigorous power of profound and searching inves- 
tigation — this careering and wide-spreading comprehension of 
mind — and those long reaches of thought, that 

" Pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon, 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 
Where fathom line could never touch the ground, 
And drag up drowned honor by the locks" 

This is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements, which 
are to enrol your names among the great men of the earth. 



Christianity the True Source of Reform,— Chapin. 

The great element of Reform is not born of human wisdom ; 
it does not draw its life from human organizations. I find it 
only in Christianity. " Thy kingdom come !" There is a sub- 
lime and pregnant burden in this prayer. It is the aspiration 
of every soul that goes forth in the spirit of Reform. For 
what is the significance of this prayer ? It is a petition that all 
holy influences would penetrate and subdue and dwell in the 
heart of man, until he shall think, and speak, and do good,, 
from the very necessity of his being. So would the institutions 
of error and wrong crumble and pass away. So would sin die 
out from the earth. And the human soul, living in harmony 
with the Divine Will, this earth would become like Heaven. 

It is too late for the Reformers to sneer at Christianity — it is 
foolishness for them to reject it. In it are enshrined our faith 
in human progress — our confidence in Reform. It is indissolu- 
bly connected with all that is hopeful, spiritual, capable in man. 
That men have misunderstood it and perverted it, is true. But 
it is also true that the noblest efforts for human melioration have 



THE DESTRUCTION OF THE PHILISTINES. 293 

come out of it — have been based upon it. Is it not so? Come, 
ye remembered ones, who sleep the sleep of the just, who took 
your conduct from the line of Christian philosophy — come from 
your tombs, and answer ! 

Come Howard, from the gloom of the prison and the taint of 
the lazar-house, and show us what Philanthropy can do when 
imbued with the spirit of Jesus. Come Eliot, from the thick 
forest where the red-man listens to the Word of Life — come 
Penn, from thy sweet counsel and weaponless victory ; and 
show us what Christian zeal and Christian love can accomplish 
with the rudest barbarians or the fiercest hearts. Come Riakes, 
from thy labors with the ignorant and the poor, and show us 
with what an eye this faith regards the lowest and least of our 
race, and how diligently it labors, not for the body, not for the 
rank, but for the plastic soul that is to course the ages of im- 
mortality. 

And ye, who are a great number — ye nameless ones — who 
have done good in your narrower spheres, content to forego re- 
nown on earth, and seeking your reward in the record on 
high, come and tell us how kindly a spirit, how lofty a purpose, 
or how strong a courage, the religion ye professed can breathe 
into the poor, the humble, and the weak. 

Go forth, then, Spirit of Christianity, to thy great work of 
Reform ! The Past bears witness to thee in the blood of thy 
martyrs, and the ashes of thy saints and heroes. The Present 
is hopeful because of thee. The Future shall acknowledge thy 
omnipotence. 



The Destruction of the Philistines.— Milton. 

Occasions drew me early to this city ; 

And, as the gates I entered with sunrise, 

The morning trumpets festival proclaimed 

Through each high street ; little I had despatched, 

When all abroad was rumored that this day 

Samson should be brought forth, to show the people 

Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games ; 

I sorrowed at his captive state, but minded 

Not to be absent at that spectacle. 

The building was a spacious theatre 

Half round, on two main pillars vaulted high, 



294 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With seats where all the lords, and each degree 
Of sort, might sit in order to behold ; 
The other side was open, where the throng 
On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand; 
I among these aloof obscurely stood. 
The feast and noon grew high, and sacrifice 
Had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine, 
When to their sports they turned. Immediately 
Was Samson as a public servant brought, 
In their state livery clad ; before him pipes, 
And timbrels, on each side went armed guards, 
Both horse and foot, before him and behind 
Archers, and slingers, cataphracts and spears. 
At sight of him the people with a shout 
Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise, 
Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall. 
He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him, 
Came to the place ; and what was set before him, 
Which without help of eye might be assayed, 
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed 
All with incredible, stupendous force ; 
None daring to appear antagonist. 
At length for intermission's sake they led him 
Between the pillars ; he his guide requested 
(For so from such as nearer stood we heard) 
As over-tired to let him lean a while 
With both his arms on those two massy pillars 
That to the arched roof gave main support. 
He, unsuspicious, led him ; which when Samson 
Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined, 
And eyes fast fixed, he stood, as one who prayed, 
Or some great matter in his mind revolved ; 
At last with head erect thus cried aloud, 
"Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed 
I have performed, as reason was, obeying, 
Not without wonder or delight beheld ; 
Now of my own accord such other trial 
[ mean to show you of my strength, yet greater, 
As, with amaze shall strike all who behold." 
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed, 
As, with the force of winds and waters pent, 
When mountains tremble : those two massy pillars 
With horrible convulsion to and fro 
He tugged, he shook, till down they came and drew 
The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder 
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath, 
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests, 
Their choice nobility and flower, not only 
Of this, but each Philistian city round, 
Met from all parts to solemnize this feast. 
Samson, with these immixed, inevitably- 
Pulled down the same destruction on himself; 
The vulgar only 'scaped, who stood without. 



THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 295 

The Day of Judgment,— Jeremy Taylor. 

Even you and I, and all the world, kings and priests, nobles 
and learned, the crafty and the easy, the wise and the foolish, 
the rich and the poor, the prevailing tyrant and the oppressed 
party, shall all appear to receive their symbol ; and this is so 
far from abating anything of its terror and our dear concern- 
ment, that it much increases it. For although concerning pre- 
cepts and discourses we are apt to neglect in particular what is 
recommended in general, and in incidences of mortality and sad 
events, the singularity of the chance heightens the apprehension 
of the evil ; yet it is so by accident, and only in regard of our im- 
perfection ; it being an effect of self-love, or some little creeping 
envy, which adheres too often to the unfortunate and miserable ; 
or being apprehended to be in a rare case, and a singular un- 
worthiness in him who is afflicted otherwise than is common to 
the sons of men, companions of his sin, and brethren of his 
nature, and partners of his usual accidents ; yet in final and 
extreme events, the multitude of sufferers does not lessen, but 
increase the sufferings ; and when the first day of judgment hap- 
pened, that, I mean, of the universal deluge of waters upon the 
old world, the calamity swelled like^ the flood, and every man 
saw his friend perish, and the neighbors of his dwelling, and the 
relatives of his house, and the sharers of his joys, and yester- 
day's bride, and the new-born heir, the priest of the family, and 
the honor of the kindred, all dying or dead, drenched in water 
and the divine vengeance ; and then they had no place to flee 
unto, no man cared for their souls ; they had none to go unto 
for counsel, no sanctuary high enough to keep them from the 
vengeance that rained down from heaven ; and so it shall be at 
the day of judgment, when that world and this, and all that 
shallbe born hereafter, shall pass through the same Red Sea, 
and be all baptized with the same fire, and be involved in the 
same cloud, in which shall be thunderings and terrors infinite. 
Every man's fear shall be increased by his neighbor's shrieks, 
and the amazement that all the world shall be in, shall unite as 
the sparks of a raging furnace into a globe of fire, and roll upon 
its own principle, and increase by direct appearances and intol- 
erable reflections. And that shriek must needs be terrible, 
when millions of men and women, at the same instant, shall 
fearfully cry out, and the noise shall mingle with the trumpet 
of the archangel, with the thunders of the dying and groan- 
ing heavens, and the crack of the dissolving . world, when the 



296 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

whole fabric of nature shall shake into dissolution and eternal 
ashes ! 

Consider what an infinite multitude of angels, and men, and 
women, shall then appear ! It is a huge assembly when the 
men of one kingdom, the men of one age in a single province, 
are gathered together into heaps and confusion of disorder ; 
but then, all kingdoms of all ages, all the armies that ever mus- 
tered, all that world that Augustus Csesar taxed, all those hun- 
dreds of millions that were slain in all the Roman wars, from 
Duma's time till Italy was broken into principalities and small 
exarchates ; all these, and all that can come into numbers, and 
that did descend from the loins of Adani, shall at once be rep- 
resented ; to which account, if we add the armies of heaven, the 
nine orders of blessed spirits, and the infinite numbers in every 
order, we may suppose the numbers fit to express the majesty 
of that God, and the terror of that Judge, who is the Lord and 
Father of all that unimaginable multitude ! * * The majesty 
of the Judge, and the terrors of the judgment, shall be spoken 
aloud by the immediate forerunning accidents, which shall be so 
great violences to the old constitutions of nature, that it shall 
break her very bones, and disorder her till she be destroyed. 
Saint Jerome relates out of the Jews' books, that their doctors 
used to account fifteen days of prodigy immediately before 
Christ's coming, and to every day assign a wonder, any one of 
which, if we should chance to see in the days of our flesh, it 
would affright us into the like thoughts which the old world 
had, when they saw the countries round about them covered 
with water and the divine vengeance ; or as those poor people 
near Adria and the Mediterranean Sea, when their houses and 
cities were entering into graves, and the bowels of the earth 
rent with convulsions and horrid tremblings. The sea, they 
say, shall rise fifteen cubits above the highest mountains, and 
thence descend into hollowness and a prodigious drought ; and 
when they are reduced again to their usual proportions, then all 
the beasts and creeping things, the monsters and the usual 
inhabitants of the sea, shall be gathered together, and make 
fearful noises to distract mankind : the birds shall mourn and 
change their song into threnes and sad accents ; rivers of fire 
shall rise from east to west, and the stars shall be rent into 
threads of light, and scatter like the beards of comets ; then 
shall be fearful earthquakes, and the rocks shall rend in pieces, 
the trees shall distil blood, and the mountains and fairest struc- 
tures shall return into their primitive dust ; the wild beasts shall 
leave their dens, and shall come into the companies of men, so 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 297 

that you shall hardly tell how to call them, herds of men or 
congregations of beasts ; then shall the graves open and give up 
their deacl, and those which are alive in nature and dead in fear 
shall be forced from the rocks whither they went to hide them, 
and from caverns of the earth where they would fain have been 
concealed ; because their retirements are dismantled, and their 
rocks are broken into wider ruptures, and admit a strange light 
into their secret bowels ; and the men being forced abroad into 
the theatre of mighty horrors, shall run up and down distracted, 
and at their wit's end ; and then some shall die, and some shall 
be changed ; and by this time the elect shall be gathered to- 
gether from the four quarters of the world, and Christ shall 
come along with them to judgment. 



Bernardo Del Carpio.— Hemans. 

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire ; 

" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — oh ! break my father's chain !" 

"Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came 

and went ; 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped from his like lead — 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was fixed and white ; — 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them was no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze ? 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. 
13* 



I 



298 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Father !" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then' 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! 
He thought of all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown, 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for now. 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father — oh ! the worth, 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside thee yet, 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met — 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for thee my fields were won — ■ 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son !" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, 
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; 
And with a fierce, o'ermastering gasp, the rearing war-horse led, 
And sternly set them face to face — the king before the dead ! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ? — 

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what is this ! 

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — gave answer, where are they ? 

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light — be still ! keep down thine ire — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed — 
Thou canst not — and a king ? — His dust be mountains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steel ; his slack hand fell— upon the silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look — then turned from that sad place : 

His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain — 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. 



Story of Le Fevre— Sterne. 

It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of 
his third pipe that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and 
gave him the following account. 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
back your honor any kind of intelligence concerning the poor 
sick lieutenant. Is he in the army, then ? said my uncle Toby. 
He is, said the corporal. And in what regiment ? said my uncle 
Toby. I'll tell your honor, replied the corporal, everything 
straightforwards as I learned it. Then, Trim, I'll fill another 



STORY OF LE FEVRE. 299 

pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee till thou hast 
done ; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and 
begin thy story again. The corporal made his old bow, which 
generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it — Your honor 
is good. And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered ; 
and begun the story to my uncle Toby over again in pretty near 
the same words. 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
back any intelligence to your honor about the lieutenant and his 
son ; for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I 
made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to 
be asked — That's a right distinction, Trim, said my uncle Toby — 
I- was answered, an' please your honor, that he had no servant 
with him ; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, which, 
upon finding himself unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the 
regiment,) he had dismissed the morning after he came. If I 
get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to 
pay the man, we can hire horses from hence. But, alas ! the 
poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to 
me ; for I heard the death-watch all night long ; and when he 
dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him ; for he is 
broken-hearted already. 

I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the 
youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord 
spoke of. But I will do it for my father myself, said the youth. 
Pray, let me save you the trouble, young gentleman, said I, 
taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to 
sit down upon by the fire whilst I did it. I believe, sir, said he, 
very modestly, I can please him best myself. I am sure, said 
I, his honor will not like the toast the worse for being toasted 
by an old soldier. The youth took hold of my hand, and in- 
stantly burst into tears. Poor youth ! said my uncle Toby ; he 
has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of 
a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend ; I 
wish I had him here. 

I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, had so great 
a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company. 
What could be the matter with me, an' please your honor? 
Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Toby, blowing his 
nose ; but that thou art a good-natured fellow. 

When I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thought 
it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and 
that your honor, though a stranger, was extremely concerned 
for his father ; and that, if there was anything in your house 



300 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

or cellar — And thou might'st have added my purse too, said my 
uncle Toby — he was heartily welcome to it. He made a very 
low bow, which was meant to your honor ; but no answer, for 
his heart was full ; so he went up stairs with the toast. I war- 
rant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen door, your 
father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a 
pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a word, good or bad, to 
comfort the youth. I thought it wrong, added the corporal. 
I think so too, said my uncle Toby. 

When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he 
felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to 
let me know that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I 
would step up stairs. I believe, said the landlord, he is going 
to say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair by 
his bedside, and as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a 
cushion. 

I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, 
Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all. I heard the poor 
gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very de- 
voutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it. 
Are you sure of it ? replied the curate. A soldier, an' please 
your reverence, said I, prays as often of his own accord as a par- 
son ; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, 
and for his honor too, he has the most reason to pray to God of 
any one in the whole world. 'Twas well said of thee, Trim, said 
my uncle Toby. But when a soldier, said I, an' please your 
reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the 
trenches up to his knees in cold water, or engaged, said I, for 
months together in long and dangerous marches ; harassed, per- 
haps, in his rear to-day ; harassing others to-morrow ; detached 
here ; countermanded there ; resting this night out upon his 
arms; beat up in his shirt the next; benumbed in his joints ; 
perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on ; he must say his 
prayers how and when he can. I believe, said I — for I was 
piqued, quoth the corporal, for the reputation of the army — I 
believe, an' please your reverence, said I, that when a soldier 
gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not 
with all his fuss and hypocrisy. Thou shouldst not have said 
that, Trim, said my uncle Toby ; for God only knows who is a 
hypocrite and who is not. At the great and general review of 
us all, corporal, at the day of judgment, and not till then, it will 
be seen who have done their duties in this world and who have 
not ; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly. I hope we 
shall, said Trim. It is in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby, 



STORY OF LE FEVRE. 301 

and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean time, we may- 
depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, that 
God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that 
if we have but done our duties in it, it will never be inquired 
into whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one. 
I hope not, said the corporal. But go on, Trim, said my uncle 
Toby, with thy story. 

When I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieutenant's 
room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, 
he was lying in his bed with his head raised upon his hand, with 
his elbow upon the pillow, and a elean white cambric handker- 
chief beside it. The youth was just stooping down to take up 
the cushion, upon which I supposed he had been kneeling ; the 
book was laid upon the bed ; and as he rose, in taking up the 
cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it away 
at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the 
lieutenant. 

He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up close to 
his bedside. If you are Captain Shandy's servant, said he, you 
must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's 
thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me. If he was of 
Levens's, said the lieutenant. I told him your honor was. Then, 
said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and re- 
member him ; but 'tis most likely, as I had not the honor of any 
acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. You will 
tell him, however, that the person his good-nature has laid un- 
der obligations to him is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus's. 
But he knows me not, said he, a second time, musing. Possibly 
he may my story, added he. Pray, tell the captain, I was the 
ensign at Breda whose wife was most unfortunately killed with 
a musket-shot as she lay in my arms in my tent. I remember 
the story, an't please your honor, said I, very well. Do you so ? 
said he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, then well may I, 
In saying this, he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which 
seemed tied with a black ribbon about his neck, and kissed it 
twice. Here, Billy, said he. The boy flew across the room to 
the bedside, and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in 
his hand, and kissed it too ; then kissed his father, and sat down 
upon the bed and wept. 

I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh — I wish, Trim, 
I was asleep. Your honor, replied the corporal, is too much 
concerned. Shall I pour your honor out a glass of sack to your 
pipe ? Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby. 

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of 



302 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

the ensign and his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omit- 
ted; and particularly well that he, as well as she, upon some 
account or other, I forget what, was universally pitied by the 
whole regiment ; but finish the story thou art upon. 'Tis fin- 
ished already, said the corporal, for I could stay no longer; so 
wished his honor a good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off 
the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we 
went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and 
were on their route to join their regiment in Flanders. But, 
alas ! said the corporal, the lieutenant's last day's march is over. 
Then what is to become of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. 

It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honor — though I tell it only 
for the sake of those, who, when cooped in betwixt a natural 
and a positive law, know not for their souls which way in the 
world to turn themselves — that, notwithstanding my uncle Toby 
was warmly engaged at that time in carrying on the siege of 
Dendermond, parallel with the allies, who pressed theirs on so 
vigorously that they scarce allowed him time to get his dinner — 
that nevertheless he gave up Dendermond, though he had al- 
ready made a lodgment upon the counterscarp — and bent his 
whole thoughts towards the private distresses at the inn ; and 
except that he ordered the garden gate to be bolted up, by 
which he might be said to have turned the siege of Dendermond 
into a blockade, he left Dendermond to itself, to be relieved or 
not by the French king as the French king thought good, and 
only considered how he himself should relieve the poor lieuten- 
ant and his son. That kind Being, who is a friend to the 
friendless, shall recompense thee for this. 

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the 
corporal, as he was putting him to bed ; and I will tell thee in 
what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of 
my services to Le Fevre — as sickness and travelling are both 
. expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, with 
a son to subsist as well as himself out of his pay — that thou 
didst not make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he 
stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to 
it as myself. Your honor knows, said the corporal, I had no 
orders. True, quoth my uncle Toby, thou didst very right, Trim, 
as a soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man. 

In the second place, for which indeed thou hast the same 
excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him what- 
ever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house 
too. A sick brother officer should have the best quarters, Trim ; 
and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him. 



STORY OF LE FEVRE. 303 

Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim ; and what with thy 
care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine to- 
gether, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon 
his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, 
smiling, he might march. He will never march, an' please your 
honor, in this world, said the corporal. He will march, said my 
uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe off. 
An' please your honor, said the corporal, he will never march 
but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, march- 
ing the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an 
inch — he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said 
the corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. 
He'll drop at last, said the corporal ; and what will become of 
his boy ? He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. 
A-well-o'-day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining 
his point, the poor soul will die. He shall not die, by G — , 
cried my uncle Toby. The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to 
heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; and 
the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon 
the word, and blotted it out for ever. 

My uncle Toby went to his bureau ; put his purse into his 
breeches pocket ; and having ordered the corporal to go early 
in the morning for a physician, he went to bed, and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the 
village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's. The hand of death 
pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at 
the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had 
rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's 
room, and without preface or apology sat himself down upon 
the chair by the bedside ; and independently of all modes and 
customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and 
brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did — 
how he had rested in the night — what was his complaint — where 
was his pain — and what he could do to help him. And with- 
out giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries, went on 
and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting 
with the corporal the night before for him. You shall go home 
directly, Le Fevre, said my uncle Toby, to my house, and we'll 
send for a doctor to see what's the matter ; and we'll have an 
apothecary, and the corporal shall be your nurse, and I'll be 
your servant, Le Fevre. 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not the effect of 
familiarity, but the cause of it — which let you at once into his 
soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature ; to this there 



304 THfi PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

was something in his looks, and voice, and manner superadded, 
which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take 
shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half fin- 
ished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son 
insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of 
the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The 
blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow 
within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, 
rallied back ; the film forsook his eyes for a moment ; he looked 
up wishfully in- my uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his 
boy ; and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken. Na- 
ture instantly ebbed again ; the film returned to its place ; the 
pulse fluttered — stopped — went on — throbbed — stopped again 
— moved — stopped. Shall I go on ? Kb. 



Our Treatment of the Indians— H. Clay. 

I have said, that you have no right to practise, under color 
of retaliation, enormities on the Indians. I will advance in sup- 
port of this position, as applicable to all law, the principle, that 
whatever has been the custom, from the commencement of a 
subject, whatever has been the uniform usage coeval and 
co-existent with the subject to which it relates, becomes its fixed 
law. Such was the foundation of all common law ; and such, 
I believe, was the principal foundation of all public, or inter- 
national law. If then, it can be shown that from the first set- 
tlement of the colonies on this part of the American continent, 
to the present time, we have constantly abstained from retali- 
ating upon the Indians the excesses practised by them towards 
us ; we are morally bound by this invariable usage, and cannot 
lawfully change it without the most cogent reasons. So far as 
my knowledge extends, from the first settlement at Plymouth 
or at Jamestown, it has not been our practice to destroy Indian 
captives, combatants or non-combatants. I know of but one de- 
viation from the code which regulates the warfare between civil- 
ized communities ; and that is the destruction of Indian towns ; 
which is supposed to be authorized upon the ground that we 
cannot bring the war to a termination without destroying the 
means which nourish it. With this single exception, the other 
principles of the laws of civilized nations are extended to 



OUR TREATMENT OF THE INDIANS. 305 

them, and are thus made law with regard to them. When did 
this humane custom, by which, in consideration of their igno- 
rance, and our enlightened condition, the rigors of war were 
mitigated, begin ? At a time when we were weak, and they 
were comparatively strong , when they were the lords of the 
soil, and we were seeking, from the vices, from the corruptions, 
from the religious intolerance, and from the oppressions of Eu- 
rope, to gain an asylum among them. And when is it proposed 
to change this custom, to substitute for it the bloody maxims 
of barbarous ages, and to interpolate the Indian public law with 
revolting cruelties ? At a time when we are powerful and they 
are weak : at a time when, to use a figure drawn from their own 
sublime eloquence, the poor children of the forest have been 
driven by the great wave which has flowed in from the Atlantic 
Ocean almost to the base of the Rocky Mountains, and, over- 
whelming them in its terrible progress, has left no other remains 
of hundreds of tribes now extinct, than those which indicate the 
remote existence of their former companion, the Mammoth of 
the New World ! Yes, it is at this auspicious period of our 
country, when we hold a proud and lofty station among the first 
nations of the world, that we are called upon to sanction a de- 
parture from the established laws and usages which have regu- 
lated our Indian hostilities ; and does the honorable gentleman 
from Massachusetts expect, in this august body, this enlightened 
assembly of Christians and Americans, by glowing appeals to 
our passions, to make us forget our principles, our religion, our 
clemency, and our humanity? Why is it that we have not 
practised, toward the Indian tribes, the right of retaliation, now 
for the first time asserted in regard to them ? Because it is a 
principle, proclaimed by reason, and enforced by every respect- 
able writer on the law of nations, that retaliation is only justifi- 
able as calculated to produce effect in the war. Vengeance is 
a new motive for resorting to it. If retaliation will produce no 
effect on the enemy, we are bound to abstain from it by every 
consideration of humanity and justice. Will it, then, produce 
effect on the Indian tribes ? No ; they care not about the exe- 
cution of those of their warriors who are taken captive. These 
are considered as disgraced by the very circumstance of their cap- 
tivity ; and it is often mercy to the unhappy captive, to deprive 
him of his existence. The poet evinced a profound knowledge 
of the Indian character, when he put into the mouth of the son 
of a distinguished chief, about to be led to the stake and tor- 
tured by his victorious enemy, the words, 



306 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Begin, ye tormentors ! your threats are in vain : 
The son of Alknomak will never complain." 

Retaliation of Indian excesses, not producing then any effect 
in preventing their repetition, is condemned both by reason and 
the principles upon which alone, in any case, it can be justified. 
On this branch of the subject, much more might be said, but, 
as he should possibly again allude to it, he would pass from it, 
for the present, to another topic. 



Napoleon Bonaparte,— -Phillips. 

He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid prod- 
igy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose 
frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, 
gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne a sceptred her- 
mit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, 
bold, independent, and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates 
— an energy that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable 
to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordi- 
nary character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that in the 
annals of this world ever rose, or reigned, or fell. Fluno; into 
life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of 
a people who acknowledge no superior, he commenced his 
course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity ! With no 
friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed 
in the list where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed 
themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance 
of destiny. He knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged 
no criterion but success — he worshipped no God but ambition, 
and with an eastern devotion he knelt at the shrine of his idola- 
try. Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not pro- 
fess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate ; in the 
hope of a dynasty, he upheld the crescent ; for the sake of a 
divorce, he bowed before the cross ; the orphan of St. Louis, he 
became the adopted child of the republic ; and with a parricidal 
ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and tribune he 
reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 307 

imprisoned the Pope ; a pretended patriot, lie impoverished the 
country ; and, in the name of Brutus, he grasped without re- 
morse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Csesars ! 
Through this pantomime of policy, fortune played the clown to 
his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, 
systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his 
whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, 
changed places with the rapidity of a drama. Even apparent 
defeat assumed the appearance of victory- — his flight from Egypt 
confirmed his destiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. 
But if his fortune was great, his genius was transcendent ; de- 
cision flashed upon his councils ; and it was the same to decide 
and to perform. To inferior intellects his combinations appeared 
perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable ; but in 
his hands, simplicity marked their development, and success 
vindicated their adoption. His person partook the character of 
his mind — if the one never yielded in the cabinet, the other 
never bent in the field. Nature had no obstacle that he did not 
surmount — space no opposition that he did not spurn ; and 
whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he 
seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! The 
whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of his de- 
signs, and the miracle of their execution. Scepticism bowed to 
the prodigies of his performance ; romance assumed the air of 
histor}^; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or too 
fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Cor- 
sica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All 
the visions of antiquity became commonplaces in his contempla- 
tion ; kings were his people — nations were his outposts ; and he 
disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and 
cabinets, as if they were titular dignitaries of the chess-board ! 
Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. 

It mattered little whether in the field or in the drawing-room — 
with the mob or the levee — wearing the jacobin bonnet or the 
iron crown — banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Hapsburg — 
dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or contemplating 
defeat at the gallows of Leipsig — he was still the same military 
despot ! 

In this wonderful combination, his affectations of literature 
must not be omitted. The gaoler of the press, he affected the 
patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he encouraged 
philosophy — the persecutor of authors and the murderer of 
printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning ! the 
assassin of Palm, the silencer of De Stael, and the denouncer of 



308 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Kotzebue, he was the friend of David, the benefactor of De 
Lille, and sent his academic prize to the philosopher of England. 
Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an 
individual consistency, were never united in the same character. 
A royalist — a republican and an emperor — a Mohammedan — a 
Catholic and a patron of the synagogue — a subaltern and a sove- 
reign — a traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an infidel — he 
was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, in- 
flexible original — the same mysterious, incomprehensible self — 
the man without a model, and without a shadow. 



What is Glory ? What is Fame ?— Motherwell. 

What is glory ? What is fame ? 
The echo of a long-lost name ; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk 
The shadow of an arrant naught ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow : 
A stream that hurries on its way, 

Singing of sorrow ; — 
The last drop of a bootless shower, 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; 
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast — 
This is the world's fame at the best ! 

What is fame ? and what is glory ? 
A dream — a jester's lying story, 
To tickle fools withal, or be 
A theme for second infancy ; 
A joke scrawled on an epitaph ; 
A grin at death's own ghastly laugh ; 
A visioning that tempts the eye, 
But mocks the touch — non-entity ; 
A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Flitting for ever 
O'er hill-top to more distant height, 

bearing us never ; 
A bubble, blown by fond conceit, 
In very sooth itself to cheat ; 
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain ; 
A fortune that to lose were gain ; 
A word of praise, perchance of blame ; 
The wreck of a time-bandied name — 
Ay, this is glory ! — this is fame ! 



THE MISERERE AT ROME. 309 

The Miserere at Rome— J. t. Headley. 

The night on which our Saviour is supposed to have died is 
selected for this service. The Sistine Chapel is dimly lighted, 
to correspond with the gloom of the scene shadowed forth. 
The ceremonies commenced with the chanting of the Lamenta- 
tions. Thirteen candles, in the form of an erect triangle, were 
lighted up in the beginning, representing the different moral 
lights of the ancient church of Israel. One after another was 
extinguished as the chant proceeded, until the last and brightest 
one at the top, representing Christ, was put out. As they one 
by one slowly disappeared in the deepening gloom, a blacker 
night seemed gathering over the hopes and fate of man, and the 
lamentation grew wilder and deeper. But as the Prophet of 
prophets, the Light, the Hope of the world disappeared, the 
lament suddenly ceased. Not a sound was heard amid the 
deepening gloom. The catastrophe was too awful, and the 
shock too great to admit of speech. He who had been pouring 
his sorrowful notes over the departure of the good and great 
seemed struck suddenly dumb at this greatest woe. Stunned 
and stupefied, he could not contemplate the mighty disaster. I 
never felt a heavier pressure on my heart than at this moment. 
The chapel was packed in every inch of it, even out of the door 
far hack into the ample hall, and yet not a sound was heard. I 
could hear the breathing of the mighty multitude, and amid it 
the suppressed half-drawn sigh. Like the chanter, each man 
seemed to say, " Christ is gone, we are orphans — all orphans !" 
The silence at length became too painful. I thought I should 
shriek out in agony, when suddenly a low wail, so desolate and 
yet so sweet, so despairing and yet so tender, like the last strain 
of a broken heart, stole slowly out from the distant darkness 
and swelled over the throng, that the tears rushed unbidden to 
my eyes, and I could have wept like a child in sympathy. It 
then died away as if the grief were too great for the strain. 
Fainter and fainter, like the dying tone of a lute, it sunk away 
as if the last sigh of sorrow was ended, when suddenly there 
burst through the arches a cry so piercing and shrill that it 
seemed not the voice of song, but the language of a wounded 
and dying heart in its last agonizing throb. The multitude 
swayed to it like the forest to the blast. Again it ceased, and 
broken sobs of exhausted grief alone were heard. In a moment 
the whole choir joined their lament and seemed to weep with 
the weeper. After a few notes they paused again, and that 
c^-.i ---i — -u^i„ , T ^jno mourned on alone. Its note is still in 



310 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

my ear. I wanted to see the singer. It seemed as if such 
sounds could come from nothing but a broken heart. Oh ! how 
unlike the joyful, the triumphant anthem that swept through the 
same chapel on the morning that symbolized the resurrection. 



A. Fragment* — Frances Kemble Butler. 

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin 

That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking 

Of all the wild imaginings that man 

Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with ; 

Making fair nature's solitary haunts 

Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful. 

And as the chain of thought grew, link by link, 

It seemed as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter, 

The stars gazed fixedly with their golden eyes, 

And a strange light played o'er each sleeping billow, 

That laid its head upon the sandy beach. 

Anon there came along the rocky shore 

A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy. 

From no one point of heaven or earth it came ; 

But under, over, and about it breathed ; 

Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure. 

It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings 

Of the midsummer breeze ; it died away 

Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds, 

That one by one melted like flakes of snow 

In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound, 

Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies; 

And suddenly, as far as eye might view, 

The coast was peopled with a world of elves, 

"Who in fantastic ringlets danced around, 

With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion, 

Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture, 

And shining as the Alps, when that the sun 

Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads 

Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove. 

They were all fair, and light as dreams. Anon 

The dance broke off; and sailing through the air, 

Some one way, and some other, they did each 

Alight upon some waving branch or flower 

That garlanded the rocks upon the shore. 

One, chiefly did I mark; one tiny sprite, 

Who crept into an orange flower-bell, 

And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips 

Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew, 

That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom, 



ACTS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 31 1 

Acts of the American Revolution,— J ared Sparks. 

The acts of the Revolution derive dignity and interest from the 
character of the actors, and the nature and magnitude of the 
events. It has been remarked, that in all great political revo- 
lutions, men have arisen possessed of extraordinary endowments, 
adequate to the exigency of the time. It is true enough, that 
such revolutions, or any remarkable and continued exertions of 
human power, must be brought to pass by corresponding quali- 
ties in the agents ; but whether the occasion makes the men, or 
men the occasion, may not always be ascertained with exact- 
ness. In either case, however, no period has been adorned with 
examples more illustrious, or more perfectly adapted to the 
high destiny awaiting them, than that of the American Rev- 
olution. 

Statesmen were at hand, who, if not skilled in the art of gov- 
erning empires, were thoroughly imbued with the principles of 
just government, intimately acquainted with the history of 
former ages, and, above all, with the condition, sentiments, feel- 
ings of their countrymen. If there were no Richelieus nor 
Mazarines, no Cecils nor Chathams, in America, there were 
men, who, like Themistocles, knew how to raise a small state to 
glory and greatness. 

The eloquence and the internal counsels of the Old Congress 
were never recorded ; we know them only in their results ; but 
that assembly, with no other power than that conferred by the 
suffrage of the people, with no other influence than that of their 
public virtue and talents, and without precedent to guide their 
deliberations, unsupported even by the arm of law or of ancient 
usages — that assembly levied troops, imposed taxes, and for 
years not only retained the confidence and upheld the civil ex- 
istence of a distracted country, but carried through a perilous 
war under its most aggravating burdens of sacrifice and suffering. 
Can we imagine a situation, in which were required higher 
moral courage, more intelligence and talent, a deeper insight 
into human nature and the principles of social and political or- 
ganizations, or, indeed, any of those qualities which constitute 
greatness of character in a statesman ? See, likewise, that work 
of wonder, the Confederation, a union of independent states, 
constructed in the very heart of a desolating war, but with a 
beauty and strength, imperfect as it was, of which the ancient 
leagues of the Amphictyons, the Achaeans, the Lycians, and the 
modern confederacies of Germany, Holland, Switzerland, afford 
neither exemplar nor parallel. 



312 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

In their foreign affairs these same statesmen showed no less 
sagacity and skill, taking their stand boldly in the rank of na- 
tions, maintaining it there, competing with the tactics of prac- 
tised diplomacy, and extorting from the powers of the Old 
World not only the homage of respect but the proffers of 
friendship. 

The military events of the Revolution, which necessarily oc- 
cupy so much of its history, are not less honorable to the actors, 
nor less fruitful in the evidences they afford of large design and 
ability of character. But these we need not recount. They live 
in the memory of all ; we have heard them from the lips of 
those who saw and suffered ; they are inscribed on imperishable 
monuments ; the very hills and plains around us tell of achieve- 
ments which can never die ; and the day will come, when the 
traveller, who has gazed and pondered at Marathon and Water- 
loo, will linger on the mount where Prescott fought and Warren 
fell, and say — Here is the field where man has struggled in his 
most daring conflict ; here is the field where liberty poured out 
her noblest blood, and won her brightest and most enduring 
laurels.' 

Happy was it for America, happy for the world, that a great 
name, a guardian genius, presided over her destinies in war, 
combining more than the virtues of the Roman Fabius and the 
Theban Epaminondas, and compared with whom, the conquer- 
ors of the world, the Alexanders and Caesars, are but pageants 
crimsoned with blood and decked with the trophies of slaughter, 
objects equally of the wonder and the execration of mankind. 
The hero of America was the conqueror only of his country's 
foes, and the hearts of his countrymen. To the one he was a 
terror, and in the other he gained an ascendency, supreme, un- 
rivalled, the tribute of admiring gratitude, the reward of a na- 
tion's love. 

The American armies, compared with the embattled legions 
of the Old World, were small in numbers, but the soul of a 
whole people centred in the bosom of these more than Spartan 
bands, and vibrated quickly and keenly with every incident that 
befell them, whether in their feats of valor, or the acuteness of 
their sufferings. The country itself was one wide battle-field, in 
which not merely the life-blood, but the dearest interests, the 
sustaining hopes, of every individual, were at stake. It was 
not a war of pride and ambition between monarchs, in which an 
island or a province might be the award of success ; it was a 
contest for personal liberty and civil rights, coming down in its 
principles to the very sanctuary of home and the fireside, and 



MARCH OF BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 313 

determining for every man the measure of responsibility he 
should hold over his own condition, possessions, and happiness. 
The spectacle was grand and new, and may well be cited as the 
most glowing page in the annals of progressive man. 

The instructive lesson of history, teaching by example, can 
no where be studied with more profit, or with a better promise, 
than in this revolutionary period of America ; and especially by 
us, who sit under the tree our fathers have planted, enjoy its 
shade, and are nourished by its fruits. But little is our merit, 
or gain, that we applaud their deeds, unless we emulate their 
virtues. Love of country was in them an absorbing principle, 
an undivided feeling ; not of a fragment, a section, but of the 
whole country. Union was the arch on which they raised the 
strong tower of a nation's independence. Let the arm be pal- 
sied that would loosen one stone in the basis of this fair struc- 
ture, or mar its beauty ; the tongue mute, that would dishonor 
their names, by calculating the value of that which they deemed 
without price. 

They have left us an example already inscribed in the world's 
memory ; an example portentous to the aims of tyranny in ev- 
ery land ; an example that will console in all ages the drooping 
aspirations of oppressed humanity. They have left us a writ- 
ten charter as a legacy, and as a guide to our course. But 
every day convinces us that a written charter may become pow- 
erless. Ignorance may misinterpret it ; ambition may assail and 
faction destroy its vital parts ; and aspiring knavery may at last 
sing its requiem on the tomb of departed liberty. It is the 
spirit which lives; in this are our safety and our hope — the 
spirit of our fathers ; and while this dwells deeply in our 
remembrance, and its flame is cherished, ever burning, ever 
pure, on the altar of our hearts; while it incites us to think 
as they have thought, and do as they have done, the honor and 
the praise will be ours, to have preserved unimpaired the rich 
inheritance, which they so nobly achieved. 



March of Bernardo Del Carpio.— Spanish Ballads. 

"With three thousand men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes, 
To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foes — 
From the city which is planted in the midst between the seas, 
To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories. 
14 



314 - THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight — 
He quits his team for spear and shield and garniture of night ; 
The shepherd hears it 'mid the mist — he flmgeth down his crook, 
And rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook. 

The youth who shows a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been 

bound 
The helmet's heavy ring within, gains manhood from the sound ; 
The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feebleness, 
Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior's ringlets press. 

As through the glen his spears did gleam, these soldiers from the hills, 
They swelled his host, as mountain-stream receives the roaring rills ; 
They round his banner flocked, in scorn of haughty Charlemagne, 
And thus upon their swords are sworn the faithful sons of Spain : 

" Free were we born," 'tis thus they cry, " though to our king we owe 
The homage and the fealty behind his crest to go ; 
By God's behest our aid he shares, but God did ne'er command 
That we should leave our children heirs of an enslaved land. 

" Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are our arms so weak, 

Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vow should break, 

To sell our freedom for the fear of prince or paladin ; 

At least, we'll sell our birthright dear — no bloodless prize they'll wi». 

" At least, King Charles, if God decrees he must be lord of Spain, 
Shall witness that the Leonese were n it aroused in vain ; 
He shall bear witness that we died as lived our sires of old — 
Nor only of Numantium's pride shall minstrel tales be told. 

" The Lion that hath bathed his paws in seas of Lybian gore, 
Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of yore ? 
Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it likes them welL 
But steadfast heart and spirit bold Alfonso ne'er shall sell " 



The Progress of Scientific Art,— Wbbstee. 

Mli. President, one of the most striking characteristics of this 
age is the extraordinary progress which it has witnessed in pop- 
ular knowledge. A new and powerful impulse has been acting 
in the social system of late, producing this effect in a most re- 
markable degree. 

In morals, in politics, in art, in literature, there is a vast 
accession to the number of readers, and to the number of profi- 
cients. The present state of popular knowledge is not the result 



EXTRACT FROM FAUSTUS. 315 

of a slow and uniform progress, proceeding through a lapse of 
years, with the same regular degree of motion. It is evidently 
the result of some new causes, brought into powerful action, and 
producing their consequences rapidly and strikingly. What, sir, 
are these causes ? 

This is not an occasion, sir, for discussing such a question at 
length ; allow me to say, however, that the improved state of 
popular knowledge is but the necessary result of the improved 
condition of the great mass of the people. Knowledge is not 
one of our merely physical wants. Life may be sustained with- 
out it. But, in order to live, men must be fed, and clothed, and 
sheltered ; and in a state of things in which one's whole labor 
can do no more than procure clothes, food, and shelter, he can 
have no time nor means for mental improvement. Knowledge, 
therefore, is not attained, and cannot be attained, till there is 
some degree of respite from daily manual toil, and never-ending 
drudgery. But whenever a less degree of labor will produce 
the absolute necessaries of life, then there come leisure and 
means, both to teach and to learn. 

But if this great and wonderful extension of popular knowl- 
edge be the result of an improved condition, it may, in the next 
place, well be asked, what are the causes which have thus sud- 
denly produced that great improvement ? How is it that the 
means of food, clothing, and shelter, are now so much more 
cheaply and abundantly procured than formerly ? Sir, the main 
cause I take to be the progress of scientific art, or a new extent 
of the application of science to art. This it is, which has so 
much distinguished the last half century in Europe and in Amer- 
ica ; and its effects are everywhere visible, and especially among 
us. Man has found new allies and auxiliaries, in the powers of 
nature, and in the inventions of mechanism. 



Extract from Faustus.— Goethe. 

Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels, 

And cherishes within himself, the hope 

To lift himself above this sea of errors ! 

Of things we know not, each day do we find 

The want of knowledge — all we know is useless 

But 'tis not wise to sadden with such thoughts 



316 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

This hour of beauty and benignity ; 
Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye, 
On those low cottages that shine so bright, 
(Each with its garden plot of smiling green,) 
Robed in the glory of the setting sun ! 
But he is parting — fading— day is over- 
Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life. 
Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth, 
Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb, 
That unrestrained I still might follow him ! 
Then should I see, in one unvarying glow 
Of deathless evening, the reposing world 
Beneath me — the hills kindling — the sweet vales, 
Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beams ; 
The silver streamlet, at the silent touch 
Of heavenly light, transfigured into gold, 
Flowing in brightness inexpressible ! 
Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion ! 
The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vain 
Would rise to hide the sun ; in vain would strive 
To check my glorious course ; the sea already, 
With its illumined bays, that burn beneath 
The lord of day, before the astonished eyes 
Opens its bosom — and he seems at last 
Just sinking — no — a power unfelt before — ■ 
An impulse indescribable succeeds ! 
Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beams 
Of the unfading light — before me day — 
And night left still behind — and overhead 
Wide heaven — and under me the spreading sea ! 
A glorious vision, while the setting sun 
Is lingering ! Oh, to the spirit's flight, 
How faint and feeble are material wings ! 
Yet such our nature is, that when the lark, 
High over us, unseen in the blue sky 
Thrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselves 
Press up from earth, as 'twere in rivalry ; 
And when above the savage hill of pines, 
The eagle sweeps with outspread wings — and when 
The crane pursues, high off, his homeward path, 
Flying o'er watery moors and wide lakes lonely ! 

s In my breast, 
Alas ! two souls have taken their abode, 
And each is struggling there for mastery ! 
One to the world, and the world's sensual pleasures, 
Clings closely, with scarce separable organs ; 
The other struggles to redeem itself, 
And rise from the entanglements of earth — 
Still feels its true home is not here — still longs 
And strives — and would with violence regain 
The fields, its own by birthright — realms of light 
And joy, where — man in vain would disbelieve 
The instincts of his nature, that confirm 



WHERE SHOULD THE SCHOLAR LIVE ? 317 

The loved tradition — dwelt our sires of old. 

If — as 'tis said — spirits be in the air, 

Moving with lordly wings, 'tween earth and heaven ; 

And if, oh, if ye listen when we call, 

Corae from your golden " incense-breathing" clouds, 

Bear me away to new and varied life ! 

Oh, were the magic mantle mine, which bore 

The wearer at his will to distant lands, 

How little would I prize the envied robes 

Of princes and the purple pomp of kings ! 






Where should the Scholar Live ?— Longfellow. 



Where should the scholar live ? In solitude or in society ? 
In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the 
heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can 
hear and feel the throbbing heart of man ? I will make answer 
for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly 
err, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have ; 
and therefore, that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan 
solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, 
are all the forms of nature, when transfigured by the miraculous 
power of poetry ; hamlets and harvest fields, and nut-brown 
waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with 
all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after all, what are 
these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great the- 
atre of human life ? What are they but the coarse materials of 
the poet's song ? Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around 
us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies 
the land of song ; there lies the poet's native land. The river 
of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so 
many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity ; the many 
homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving 
round its fireside, as a central sun ; all forms of human joy and 
suffering, brought into that narrow compass ; and to be in this 
and be a part of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with 
his fellow-men ; such, such should be the poet's life. If he would 
describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of 
the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should 
come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor 
should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang 



318 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

for ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or 
trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, 
and having merely the decorations of street scenery. A ruined 
character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark 
abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be 
rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves 
and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and 
Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain 
bridges. These are the great themes of human thought ; not 
green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere ex- 
ternal forms of nature we make our own and carry with us into 
the city, by the power of memory. 



A Legend qf the Rhine.— Victor Hugo. 

In my childhood there was an old wood-cut suspended near 
my bed, hung up there by an old German nurse, which repre- 
sented an ancient, mouldering, isolated ruin, amidst fogs and 
mountains. The sky was charged with black and threatening 
clouds, and every evening, after offering up my prayers, and 
previous to closing my eyes, I used to gaze till the last moment 
upon the wood-cut. In the night I saw it in my dreams, and 
connected it with terrible ideas. The tower seemed immense. 
Water poured, and lightning fell from the clouds, while the 
wind from the mountains seemed to groan heavily. One day I 
inquired of the nurse the name of the tower ; to which she an- 
swered, making the sign of the cross, " The Mailsethurm /" 
Then she related to me, how, in older times at Mayence, there 
was once a wicked archbishop named Hatto, also abbot of 
Fulda ; " a covetous priest," said she, " opening the hand to 
bestow benedictions rather than benefactions." In a year of 
scarcity he bought up all the corn, in order to sell it dear to 
the people. Then came famine, and the peasants along the 
Rhine were all dying of hunger, so that they crowded round 
the burgh of Mayence, crying aloud for bread, which the arch- 
bishop haughtily denied. The story now becomes dreadful. 
The starving people, refusing to disperse, thronged the arch- 
bishop's palace ; when, lo ! the enraged Hatto surrounded them 
with his archer guard, who, seizing the men, women, and chil- 



A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 319 

dren, shut them up in a, barn, and set fire to it ; a scene, said 
the old lady, " that would have melted rocks of stone." Hatto, 
however, only laughed, and on hearing the wretched beings 
scream in the flames, remarked, " Tis but the squeaking of 
rats !" The barn was now in ashes, and Mayence unpeopled 
and deserted ; when suddenly a multitude of rats swarmed 
forth from the barn, like worms from the sores of Ahasuerus ; 
making their way through the fissures of the walls, defying the 
foot that spurned them, multiplying at every moment, inundat- 
ing the streets, citadel, and palace, cellars and chambers; in 
fact, a divine plague and visitation ! Hatto fled from Mayence, 
pursued by the rats into the field, and took refuge in Bingen, 
which was surrounded by lofty walls. It was there the arch- 
bishop had built a tower in the middle of the Rhine, to which 
he proceeded in a boat, round which his archers beat the water. 
But, lo ! the rats also took to the river, crossed the Rhine, 
clambered up the towers, gnawed the doors, windows, roofs, 
ceilings, and floors, and finding their way to the lower ditch, in 
which the cruel bishop was hid, devoured him alive ! 

The malediction of heaven and indignation of man have laid 
the finger of scorn upon that fatal tower, now called the Maiise- 
thurm. It stands deserted and decaying in the middle of the 
river, and a reddish vapor is sometimes seen at night issuing from 
the walls, like the smoke of a furnace ; according to the super- 
stition of the spot, the soul of Hatto returning to haunt its scene 
of condemnation. 

Did you ever remark, that history is often immoral, while 
tales and fictions are moral, virtuous, and decent ? In history, 
the law of the strongest is always good ; tyrants are victorious, 
and headsmen prosper ; the monstrous fatten ; the Syllas become 
honest burghers, and Louis XI. and Cromwell die quietly in 
their bed. Fictions always command a view of the infernal re- 
gions ; no delinquency but what has its chastisement ; no crime 
but it ensures its penalty ; no sinner but eventually becomes 
penitent, or meets with his fitting doom. This arises from his- 
tory moving in infinite space, and fiction being restricted to the 
finite. The author of a fiction does not assume the right of lay- 
ing down the facts without exposing the consequences ; for he 
works in the dark ; is sure of nothing ; must teach, advise, 
expound ; and would not dare invent incidents without an im- 
mediate conclusion. God, who creates history, divulges only 
what seemeth to Him good ! The consequences of historical 
events often lie at too wide a distance from their origin to be 
readily re traceable. 



320 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Mausethurm is an appropriate name. One finds there all that 
it promises. But there are minds which consider themselves 
matter of fact, and are simply barren; which would fain extin- 
guish all the poetry of life, and say to the imagination as the 
gardener did to the nightingale, " Will you never be quiet, stu- 
pid beast ?" 

Such people as these pretend that the name of Mausethurm 
comes from M'duse or Mauth, signifying toll ; and pretend that, 
in the tenth century, before the river was widened, the Rhine 
was only navigable on the left side, and that the town of Bingen 
exacted, by means of this tower, a toll from all the craft upon 
the river. They back this assertion by the fact of there being 
two such towers close to Strasbourg, devoted to such a purpose ; 
and, in like manner, called "Mausethurme." For such grave 
reasoners, utterly inaccessible to legendary lore, the town must 
remain a toll-bar, and Hatto a custom-house officer ! 

For all well-thinking old women, myself among the rest, 
Mausethurm derives its name from m'duse, which is derived from 
mus, which means a rat ; and for us, the pretended toll and 
custom-house officer are mere vulgar fictions. 

After all, the two opinions may be reconciled ; for about the 
sixteenth or seventeenth century, after Luther and Erasmus, the 
municipal authorities may have utilized the tower of HattO, and 
installed some tollage in the haunted tower. Why not ? Rome 
established her custom-house in the temple of Antoninus ; and 
the outrage she offered to history Bingen may have offered to 
tradition ! By this rule, Mauth would be right, and M'duse 
wrong. However it may be, ever since my old nurse related to 
me the story of Hatto, it has remained one of the familiar vis- 
ions of my mind. Every man has his favorite phantoms, just 
as all have their hobbies. Night is the realm of dreams. Some- 
times a gleam, at others a flame, brightens our souls. The 
self-same dream may bring " airs from heaven," and " blasts from 
hell!" Imagination throws up her Bengal lights, coloring all 
things with their fantastic hue. 

I must observe that the Mause tower always appeared to me 
a tale of especial horror ; and that when my fancy urged me 
towards the Rhine, my first thought was neither the Cathedral 
of Cologne, the dome of Mayence, nor the Pfalz, but the Mause 
tower ! Imagine therefore the feelings of a poor credulous poet, 
as well as impassioned antiquary, when, twilight having suc- 
ceeded the parting day, the hills became less defined, the trees 
black, with a few stars twinkling thereon, the Rhine murmuring 
unseen, and the road fore-shortened as night approached, losing 



A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 321 

itself, as it were, in mist a few steps before me. I walked slowly 
on, my eyes peering into the obscurity. I knew I was approach- 
ing the Mausethurm, that mysterious ruin till now an hallucina- 
tion, which was about to become a reality. 

A Chinese proverb says : " Strain the bow, and ijie arrow 
swerves !" Such is the case with the mind. By degrees the 
vapor called reverie mounted into my brain. The rustle of the 
foliage was hushed. The faint ring of the distant forge clinked 
in my ear from afar off; and, lost in the vague current of my 
ideas, I forgot both rats and mice, the toll and the archbishop, 
and listened, as I walked along, to the remote clang of the an- 
vil, which, among the varying voices of evening, of all others 
wakes in my mind the wildest range of ideas. 

On suddenly turning, I halted, when lo ! at my feet lay the 
Rhine, crushing through the bushes, hoarse and impetuous ; to 
the right and left were mountains, or rather dense masses of 
darkness, their summits vanishing in the clouds, which here and 
there were transpierced by them — the horizon forming a vast 
curtain of shade. 

In the middle of the river, in the distance, rose from the still 
and dead waters a high black tower of hideous form ; from the 
summit of which proceeded, by fits and starts, a reddened nebu- 
losity. This gleam, resembling the reverberation of some red- 
hot pipe or furnace, threw out its glare upon the hills, setting 
forth on the right bank an isolated ruin — the lengthening shadow 
of which was reflected in the water, even to my feet. Imagine, 
if possible, this sinister landscape, defined by such singular 
effects of light and shade. Not a voice or cry of bird intruded 
upon the chill and mournful silence, save the monotonous ripple 
of the Rhine. 

The Mausethurm was before me ! I had conceived it to be 
more imposing. All was there that I could require — the solemn 
night, the trembling reeds, the roar of the Rhine, as though hy- 
dras were hissing under its waters ; the fitful moaning of the 
wind, the red glare from the tower, the soul of Hatto ! And 
yet I was disappointed ! No matter ! I clung to the work of 
my fancy ; and a work of fancy it was fated to remain. 

I felt inclined, in spite of the lateness of the hour, and with- 
out waiting for daylight, to visit the edifice. The apparition 
was before my eyes, the night dark, the pale phantom of the 
archbishop visible in the water. Surely this was the very mo- 
ment to visit this formidable tower. 

But how was I to proceed ? where to find a boat ? At such 
an hour, and in such a place, to swim across the Rhine was too 
14* 



322 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

great an effort for the sake of a spectre. Besides, had I been a 
first-rate swimmer, and rash enough for the attempt, within a 
few yards of the spot is the well-known whirlpool of Binger- 
loch, which formerly swallowed up vessels with as much ease 
as a shark a herring, and to which the best of swimmers 
would prove a mere gudgeon. I was consequently somewhat 
perplexed ! 

. On my road towards the ruin, I recalled to mind that the 
vibrations of the silver bell, and the ghosts of the donjon of Vel- 
mich, do not prevent excellent vines from flourishing near the 
walls, and that it was to be presumed the river, even here, must 
contain fish. I might therefore probably find the hut of some 
salmon-fisher at hand. As the vine-dressers defy Falkenstein 
and its Mause, the fishermen may well confront the Hatto and 
his rats ! 

I was not mistaken. Nevertheless I proceeded some distance 
without success, reached the nearest point to the ruin, and, on 
passing it, found myself at the confluence of the Nahe. Already 
I had begun to despair of my purpose, when, on approaching 
the willows on the bank, I perceived one of those spider-like 
nets I have already mentioned. A few paces off a boat was 
moored, in which lay a man enveloped in a blanket. I woke 
him up, and pointed to the tower, but he did not understand 
me. I then showed him a Saxon dollar, a sign which he under- 
stood in a moment; and some minutes afterwards we were 
gliding along like two spectres, in the direction of the Mause- 
thurm. 

As we approached the tower from the middle of the river, it 
appeared to diminish in consequence of the breadth of the 
Rhine. This effect was of short duration. As I got into the 
boat above the tower, the current soon carried us thither ; my 
eyes being fixed on the red glare still issuing from the summit 
of the tower, which I now saw increase in size at every stroke 
of the oar, so as to become really imposing. 

On a sudden I felt the boat bend beneath me, and the shock 
jerked my cane from out of my hands. I looked towards my 
companion ; who, steering coolly on by the sinister guidance of 
the glowing Mausethurm, said aloud, " Bingerloch /" We were 
passing the whirlpool ! 

The boat swerved, the man rose, and seizing a pole with one 
hand, and a rope with the other, plunged the first into the 
water, and leaning on it with all his weight, ran along the 
plank on the side ; I felt the boat grate harshly against the 
rocks beneath ! 



A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 323 

This difficult manoeuvre was executed with marvellous dex- 
terity, and without uttering a word. Suddenly withdrawing his 
pole from the water, he held it up horizontally, and threw out 
a rope into the water. The boat immediately stopped. We 
were arrived. 

There stood the lonely and formidable Mausethurm, with its 
base deeply furrowed, as if the rats of the legend had gnawed 
through the very stones. 

The glare had now become a fierce and brilliant flame, throw- 
ing forth its rays far and wide, and bursting from the crevices 
and fissures of the tower, as if through the holes of a gigantic 
magic-lantern. I seemed to hear within a harsh and continuous 
noise as if from grinding. I now landed, and bade the boatman 
wait for me, and approached the ruin. 

I had at last then attained the object of my wishes. This 
was the rat -swarming tower of Hatto, close to me, before my 
very- eyes. I was literally on the threshold, able to touch, feel, 
pluck the grass from the very stones of the nightmare of my 
youth! Yes, an embodied nightmare, real and genuine, was 
•before me ! What extraordinary sensations must arise from so 
strange a contact 1 

The front before which I was standing had a glazed loop- 
bole, and four windows of unequal sizes ; two on the second, 
and two or the third story. At about the height of a man's 
tiead, under, the lower windows, was a low wide door, open, 
and communicating with the ground by means of a heavy lad- 
der with only three steps. From this door issued more light 
than from the windows. As I proceeded towards it with cau- 
tion, over the sharp and pointed rocks, something round and 
H&ck passed rapidly by me, almost between my feet, and I 
eould have fancied it to be an enormous rat flying towards the 
reeds. I still heard the hoarse grinding within, and, in a few 
more strides, found .myself before the door. 

This door, which the architect of the wicked bishop had con- 
structed high above the soil, to render the access more difficult 
to the rats, had formed the entrance to the lower room of the 
tower, when it had upper and lower rooms. But now both 
floors and ceilings have fallen in, and the tower of Mausethurm 
has four high walls, rubbish for floor, and the sky for roof. I 
looked however into the space from which I had heard the 
grinding, and seen so strange a light ; and there observed two 
men in an angle, their backs turned towards me ; the one 
bending, the other leaning upon a kind of rod, which by a slight 
exercise of the imagination might have been converted into an 



324 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

instrument of torture. Their arms and feet were naked, cover- 
ed with rags, with a leather apron to the knees, and a hooded 
jacket on their back. One was old and gray, the other young, 
with light hair, reddened by the reflection from a vast furnace 
in the opposite angle of the building. The hood of the old man 
inclined to the right, like a Guelph ; that of the young man to 
the left, like a Ghibeline. But they were neither the one nor 
the other, nor even devils, but simply two smiths. 

Their furnace, in which was a red-hot bar of iron, filled the 
building with the glare and reddened smoke, constituting the 
soul of Hatto transformed by the powers of hell into fiery vapor. 
The grinding proceeded from a file. Near the door was an an- 
vil with two huge hammers, the sound of which an hour before 
had prompted my poetical effusion. 

And thus the Mausethurm has progressed into a forge ! Why 
then might it not as well have been a custom-house ? Decided- 
ly, my dear friend, Mauth was the true version ! 

Nothing can be more dilapidated than the tower, both within 
and without. The walls, from which once were suspended 
episcopal hangings, and afterwards, according to the legend, 
gnawed by the rats with the name of Hatto, are now naked, 
worn by the rain, covered by the moisture without with a green 
coating, and by the furnace within with a black. 

The two smiths proved to be worthy people. Having ascend- 
ed the ladder, they showed me into the building ; and near a 
chimney pointed out a narrow door leading into a turret with- 
out windows, and almost inaccessible, in which the archbishop 
is said to have sought refuge. They also lent me a lantern to 
visit every part of the diminutive island ; which is a long and 
narrow tongue of land, with a belt of reeds and rushes, and the 
Euphorbia officinalis. At every step in this island, the feet 
knock against hillocks, or sink into galleries ; for moles have 
succeeded to the rats. 

The Rhine has left uncovered the eastern point of the island, 
which seems to stem like a prow the current. On lowering 
with my lantern, I found the tower to be built on red marble, 
which has the appearance of being veined with blood. The 
Mause tower is square. The turret, of which the smiths 
showed me the interior, presents a picturesque feature, looking 
towards Bingen. The pentagonal form of this lofty turret is 
evidently of the eleventh century, and the rats seem to have 
particularly wreaked their vengeance upon its base. The ap- 
ertures in the tower have so completely lost their form, that it 
would be impossible to infer a date. The stone-facings are so 



THE LAST EVENING BEFORE ETERNITY. 325 

time-worn as to resemble hideous leprosy. The stones which 
once constituted battlements might pass for the teeth of the 
walrus or mastodon cemented into the walls. 

After gathering a sprig of Euphorbia, I quitted the Mause- 
thurm. The boatman was fast asleep. As we rowed away 
from the island, and the two smiths returned to the anvil, I 
heard the heated iron hiss aloud, as it was plunged into the 
water. Half an hour afterwards I reached Bingen, and after 
supper, though I was much fatigued, and all the people were 
in bed, by means of a dollar I managed to ascend to a dilapi- 
dated old castle, called the Klopp. I was rewarded with a 
scene worthy of closing such a day, having seen so much, and 
indulged in so many fancies. It was dead of night. Beneath 
me lay a mass of black houses, like a vast lake of darkness, 
there being but seven lights visible in the town. By a strange 
chance, these seven lights, like seven stars, exactly represented 
Ursa major, which at that moment shone pure and bright in 
the heavens, so that the majestic constellation, millions of miles 
above us, seemed reflected at my feet in an ocean of liquid jet. 



The Last Evening before Eternity.— Hillhouse. 

By this, the sun his westering car drove low ; 
Round his broad wheel full many a lucid cloud 
Floated, like happy isles, in seas of gold : 
Along the horizon castled shapes were piled, 
Turrrets and towers, whose fronts, embattled, gleamed 
"With yellow light : smit by the slanting ray, 
A ruddy beam the canopy reflected ; 
With deeper light the ruby blushed ; and thick 
Upon the seraphs' wings the glowiog spots 
Seemed drops of fire. Uncoiling from his staff, 
With fainter wave, the gorgeous ensign hung, 
Or, swelling with the swelling breeze, by fits 
Cast off, upon the dewy air, huge flakes 
Of golden lustre. Over all the hill, 
The heavenly legions, the assembled world, 
Evening her crimson tint forever drew. 
* * *.'■•'•# * 

Round I gazed, 
Where, in the purple west, no more to dawn, 
Faded the glories of the dying day. 
Mild twinkling through a crimson-skirted cloud 



326 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

The solitary star of evening shone. 

While gazing wistful on that peerless light, 

Thereafter to be seen no more, (as, oft 

In dreams, strange images will mix,) sad thoughts 

Passed oer my soul. Sorrowing, I cried, Farewell, 

Pale, beauteous planet, that display est so soft, 

Amid yon glowing streak, thy transient beam, 

A long, a last farewell ! Seasons have changed, 

Ages and empires rolled, like smoke, away ; 

But thou unaltered, beam'st as silver fair 

As on thy birthnight. Bright and watchful eyes, 

From palaces and bowers, have hailed thy gem 

With secret transport. Natal star of love, 

And souls that love the shadowy hour of fancy, 

How much I owe thee, how I bless thy ray ! 

How oft thy rising o'er the hamlet green, 

Signal of rest, and social converse sweet, 

Beneath some patriarchal tree, has cheered 

The peasant's heart, and drawn his benison 1 



Unwritten Music- -N. P. Willis. 

Mephistopheles could hardly have found a more striking 
amusement for Faust than the passage of three hundred miles 
in the canal from Lake Erie to the Hudson. As I walked up 
and down the deck of the packet-boat, I thought to myself, that 
if it were not for thoughts of things that come more home to 
one's " business and bosom," (particularly "bosom,") I could 
be eontent to retake my berth at Schenectady, and return to 
Buffalo for amusement. The Erie canal -boat is a long and very 
pretty drawing-room afloat. It has a library, sofas, a tolerable 
cook, curtains or Venetian blinds, a civil captain, and no smell 
of steam or perceptible motion. It is drawn generally by three 
horses at a fair trot, and gets you through about a hundred 
miles a day, as softly as if you were witched over the ground 
by Puck and Mustard-seed. The company (say fifty people) is 
such as pleases Heaven ; though I must say (with my eye all 
along the shore, collecting the various dear friends I have made 
and left on that long canal) there are few highways on which 
you will meet so many lovely and loving fellow-passengers. On 
this occasion my star was bankrupt — Job Smith being my only 
civilized companion — and I was left to the unsatisfactory society 
of my own thoughts and the scenery. 



UNWRITTEN MUSIC. S21 

• 

Discontented as I may seem to have been, I remember, 
through eight or ten years of stirring and thickly-sown manhood, 
every moment of that lonely evening. I remember the pro- 
gression of the sunset, from the lengthening shadows and the 
first gold upon the clouds, to the deepening twilight of the new- 
sprung star hung over the wilderness. I remember what I am 
going to describe — a twilight anthem in the forest — as you re- 
member an air of Kossini's, or a transition in the half-fiendish, 
half-heavenly creations of Meyerbeer. I thought time dragged 
heavenly then, but I wish I had as light a heart and could feel 
as vividly now ! 

The Erie Canal is cut a hundred or two miles through the 
heart of the primeval wilderness of America, and the boat was 
gliding on silently and swiftly, and never sailed a lost cloud 
through the abyss of space on a course more apparently new 
and untrodden. The luxuriant soil had sent up a rank grass 
that covered the horse-path like velvet ; the Erie water was clear 
as a brook in the winding canal ; the old shafts of the gigantic 
forest spurred into the sky by thousands, and the yet unscared 
eagle swung off* from the dead branch of the pine, and skimmed 
the tree-tops for another perch, as if he had grown to believe 
that gliding spectre a harmless phenomenon of nature. The 
horses drew steadily and unheard at the end of the long line ; 
the steersman stood motionless at the tiller, and I lay on a heap 
of baggage in the prow, attentive to the slightest breathing of 
nature. 

The gold of the sunset had glided up the dark pine-tops and 
disappeared, like a ring taken slowly from an Ethiop's finger ; 
the whip-poor-will had chanted the first stave of his lament ; 
the bat was abroad, and the screech-owl, like all bad singers, 
commenced without waiting to be importuned, though we were 
listening for the nightingale. The air, as I said before, had been 
all day breathless ; but as the first chill of evening displaced the 
warm atmosphere of the departed sun, a slight breeze crisped 
the mirrored bosom of the canal, and then commenced the night 
anthem of the forest, audible, I would fain believe, in its sooth- 
ing changes, by the dead tribes wftbse bones whiten amid the 
perishing leaves. First, whisperingly yet articulately, the sus- 
pended and wavering foliage of the birch was touched by the 
many-fingered wind, and, like a faint prelude, the silver-lined 
leaves' rustled in the low branches ; and, with a moment's pause, 
when you could hear the moving of the vulture's claws upon the 
bark, as he turned to get his breast to the wind, the increasing 
breeze swept into the pine-tops, and drew forth from their fringe- 



328 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

like and myriad tassels a low monotone like tne refrain of a 
far-off dirge ; and still as it murmured, (seeming to you some- 
times like the confused and heart-broken responses of the 
penitents on a cathedral floor,) the blast strengthened and filled, 
and the rigid leaves of the oak, and the swaying fans and chalices 
of the magnolia, and the rich cups of the tulip-trees, stirred and 
answered with their different voices like many-toned harps ; and 
when the wind was fully abroad, and every moving thing on the 
breast of the earth was roused from its daylight repose, the ir- 
regular and capricious blast, like a player on an organ of a 
thousand stops, lulled and strengthened by turns, and from the 
hiss in the rank grass, low as the whisper of fairies, to the thun- 
der of the impinging and groaning branches of the larch and the 
fir, the anthem went ceaselessly through its changes, and the 
harmony (though the owl broke in with his scream, and though 
the overblown monarch of the wood came crashing to the earth) 
was still perfect and without a jar. It is strange that there is 
no sound of nature out of tune. The roar of the waterfall comes 
into this anthem of the forest like an accompaniment of bassoons, 
and the occasional bark of the wolf, or the scream of a night- 
bird, or even the deep-throated croak of the frog, is no more 
discordant than the outburst of an octave flute above the even 
melody of an orchestra ; and it is surprising how the large rain- 
drops, pattering on the leaves, and the small, voice of the 
nightingale (singing, like nothing but himself, sweetest in the 
darkness) seems an intensitive and a low burden to the general 
anthem of the earth — as it were, a single voice among instru- 
ments. 

I had what Wordsworth calls a " couchant ear" in my youth, 
and my story will wait, dear reader, while I tell you of another 
harmony that I learned to love in the wilderness. 

There will come sometimes in the spring — say in May, or 
whenever the snow-drops and sulphur butterflies are tempted 
out by the first timorous sunshine — there will come, I say, in 
that yearning and youth-renewing season, a warm shower at 
noon. Our tent shall be pitched on the skirts of a forest of 
young pines, and the evergwen foliage, if foliage it may be called, 
shall be a daily refreshment to our eye while watching, with the 
west wind upon our cheeks, the unclothed branches of the elm. 
The rain descends softly and warm ; but with the sunset the 
clouds break away, and it grows suddenly cold enough to freeze. 
The next morning you shall come out with me to a hillside look- 
ing upon the south, and lie down with your ear to the earth. 
The pine tassels hold in every four of their fine fingers a drop 



THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE. 329 

of rain frozen like a pearl in a long ear-ring, sustained in their 
loose grasp by the rigidity of the cold. The sun grows warm 
at ten, and the slight green fingers begin to relax and yield, and 
by eleven they are all drooping their icy pearls upon the dead 
leaves with a murmur through the forest like the swarming of 
the bees of Hybla, There is not much variety in its music, but 
it is a pleasant monotone for thought, and if you have a restless 
fever in your bosom, (as I had, when I learned to love it, for 
the travel which has corrupted the heart and the ear that it 
soothed and satisfied then,) you may lie down with a crooked 
root under your head in the skirts of the forest, and thank 
Heaven for an anodyne to care. And it is better than the voice 
of your friend, or the song of your lady-love, for it exacts no 
gratitude, and will not desert you ere the echo dies upon the 
wind. 

Oh, how many of these harmonies there are— how many that 
we hear, and how many that are " too constant to be heard !" 
I could go back to my youth, now, with this thread of recollec- 
tion, and unsepulture a hoard of simple and long-buried joys 
that would bring the blush upon my cheek to think how my 
senses are dulled since such things could give me pleasure ! Is 
there no " well of Kanathos" for renewing the youth of the soul ? 
no St. Hilary's cradle? no elixir to cast the slough of heart- 
sickening and heart- tarnishing custom ? Find me an alchemy 
for that, with your alembic and crucible, and you may resolve 
to dross again your philosopher's stone ! 



The Brothers Cheeryble.— Dickens. 

The Square in which the counting-house of the brothers 
Cheeryble was situated, although it might not wholly realize the 
very sanguine expectations which a stranger would be disposed 
to form on hearing the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by 
Tim Linkinwater, was, nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook 
in the heart of a busy town like London, and one which occu- 
pied a high place in the affectionate remembrances of several 
grave persons domiciled in the neighborhood, whose recollec- 
tions, however, dated from a much more recent period, and 



330 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

whose attachment to the spot was far less absorbing than were 
the recollections and attachment of the enthusiastic Tim. 

And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the 
aristocratic gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, 
the dowager barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the 
gravel walks and garden seats of the Squares of Russell and 
Euston, suppose that the affections of Tim Linkin water, or the 
inferior lovers of this particular locality, had been awakened and 
kept alive by any refreshing associations with leaves however 
dingy, or grass, however bare and thin. The City Square has 
no inclosure, save the lamp-post in the middle, and no grass but 
the weeds which spring up round its base. It is a quiet, little- 
frequented, retired spot, favorable to melancholy and contempla- 
tion, and appointments of long- waiting ; and up and down its 
every side the Appointed saunters idly by the hour together, 
wakening the echoes with the monotonous sound of his footsteps 
on the smooth-worn stones, and counting first the windows and 
then the very bricks of the tall silent houses that hem him round 
about. In winter-time the snow will linger there, long after it 
has melted from the busy streets and highways. The summer's 
sun holds it in some respect, and while he darts his cheerful 
rays sparingly into the square, he keeps his fiery heat and glare 
for noisier and less-imposing precincts. It is so quiet that you 
can almost hear the ticking of your own watch when you stop 
to cool in its refreshing atmosphere. There is a distant hum — 
of coaches, not of insects — but no other sound disturbs the still- 
ness of the square. The ticket-porter leans idly against the post 
at the corner, comfortably warm, but not hot, although the day 
is broiling. His white apron flaps languidly in the air, his head 
gradually droops upon his breast, he takes very long winks with 
both eyes at once ; even he is unable to withstand the soporific 
influence of the place, and is gradually falling asleep. But now 
he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two, and gazes 
out before him with eager wildness in his eye. Is it a job, or a 
boy at marbles ? Does he see a ghost, or hear an organ ? No ; 
sight more unwonted still — there is a butterfly in the square — a 
real, live butterfly ! astray from flowers and sweets, and flutter- 
ing among the iron heads of the dusty area railings ! 

But if there were not many matters immediately without the 
doors of Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distract 
the thoughts of the young clerk, there were not a few within 
to interest and amuse him. There was scarcely an object in the 
place, animate or inanimate, which did not partake in some de- 
gree of the scrupulous method and punctuality of Mr. Timothy 



THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE. 33 1 

Llnkinwater. Punctual as the counting-house dial, which he 
maintained to be the best time-keeper in London next after 
the clock of some old, hidden, unknown church hard by, (for 
Tim held the fabled goodness of that at the Horse Guards to be 
a -pleasant fiction, invented by jealous West-enders,) the old 
clerk performed the minutest actions of the day, and arranged 
the minutest articles in the little room, in a precise and regular 
order, which could not have been exceeded if it had actually 
been a real glass case fitted with the choicest curiosities. Paper, 
pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers, pounce-box, string-box, 
fire-box, Tim's hat, Tim's scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim's 
other coat — looking precisely like a back view of himself, as it 
hung against the wall — all had their accustomed inches of space. 
Except the clock, there was not such an accurate and unim- 
peachable instrument in existence as the little thermometer 
which hung behind the door. There was not a bird of such 
methodical and business-like habits in all the world as the blind 
blackbird, who dreamed and dozed away his days in a large 
snug cage, and had lost his voice from old age years before Tim 
first bought him. There was not such an eventful story in the 
whole range of anecdote as Tim could tell concerning the acqui- 
sition of that very bird : how, compassionating his starved and 
suffering condition, he had purchased him, with the view of hu- 
manely terminating his wretched life ; how he determined to 
wait three* days and see whether the bird revived ; how, before 
half the time was out, the bird did revive ; and how he went on 
reviving and picking up his appetite and good looks until he 
gradually became what — " what you see him now, sir" — Tim 
would say, glancing proudly at the cage. And with that, Tim 
would utter a melodious chirrup, and cry " Dick ;" and Dick, 
who, for any sign of life he had previously given, might have 
been a wooden or stuffed representation of a blackbird indiffer- 
ently executed, would come to the side of the cage in three 
small jumps, and thrusting his bill between the bars, turn his 
sightless head towards his old master — and at that moment it 
would be very difficult to determine which of the two was the 
happier, the bird, or Tim Linkinwater. 

Nor was this all. Everything gave back, besides, some reflec- 
tion of the kindly spirit of the brothers. The warehousemen 
and porters were such sturdy jolly fellows that it was a treat to 
see them. Among the shipping-announcements and steam- 
packet lists which decorated the counting-house wall, were de- 
signs for alms-houses, statements of charities, and plans for new 
hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords hung above the 



332 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

chimney-piece for the terror of evil-doers, but the blunderbuss 
was rusty and shattered, and the swords were broken and edge- 
less. Elsewhere, their open display in such a condition would 
have raised a smile, but there it seemed as though even violent 
and offensive weapons partook of the reigning influence, and be- 
came emblems of mercy and forbearance. 

Such thoughts as these occurred to Nicholas very strongly 
on the morning when he first took possession of the vacant 
stool, and looked about him more freely and at ease than he had 
before enjoyed an opportunity of doing. Perhaps they encour- 
aged and stimulated him to exertion, for during the next two 
weeks all his spare hours, late at night and early in the morn- 
ing, were incessantly devoted to acquiring the mysteries of book- 
keeping and some other forms of mercantile account. To these 
he applied himself with such steadiness and perseverance that, 
although he brought no greater amount of previous knowledge to 
the subject than certain dim recollections of two or three very 
long sums entered into a ciphering-book at school, and relieved 
for parental inspection by the effigy of a fat swan tastefully flour- 
ished by the writing-master's own hand, he found himself, at 
the end of a fortnight, in a condition to report his proficiency to 
Mr. Linkinwater, and to claim his promise that he, Nicholas 
Nickleby, should now be allowed to assist him in his graver 
labors. 

It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater slowly bringing out 
a massive ledger and day-book, and, after turning them over and 
over, and affectionately dusting their backs and sides, open the 
leaves here and there, and cast his eyes half-mournfully, half- 
proudly, upon the fair and unblotted entries. 

" Four-and-forty year, next May!" said Tim. "Many new 
ledgers since then. Four-and-forty year !" 

Tim closed the book again. 

" Come, come," said Nicholas, " I am all impatience to 
begin." 

Tim Linkinwater shook his head with an air of mild reproof. 
Mr. Nickleby was not sufficiently impressed with the deep and 
awful nature of his undertaking. Suppose there should be any 
mistake — any scratching out — 

Young men are adventurous. It is extraordinary what they 
will rush upon sometimes. Without even taking the precaution 
of sitting himself down upon his "stool, but standing leisurely at 
the desk, and with a smile upon his face — actually a smile ; 
(there was no mistake about it ; Mr. Linkinwater often men- 
tioned it afterwards ;) Nicholas dipped his pen into the ink- 



THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE. 333 

stand before him, and plunged into the books of Cheeryble 
Brothers ! 

Tim Linkinwater turned pale, and tilting up his stool on the 
two legs nearest Nicholas, looked over his shoulder in breathless 
anxiety. Brother Charles and brother Ned entered the count- 
ing-house together ; but Tim Linkinwater, without looking 
round, impatiently waved his hand as a caution that profound 
silence must be observed, and followed the nib of the inexpe- 
rienced pen with strained and eager eyes. 

The brothers looked on with smiling faces, but Tim Linkin- 
water smiled not, nor moved for some minutes. At length he 
drew a long, slow breath, and still maintaining his position on 
the tilted stool, glanced at brother Charles, secretly pointed 
with the feather of his pen towards Nicholas, and nodded 
his head in a grave and resolute manner, plainly signifying 
"He'll do." 

Brother Charles nodded again, and exchanged a laughing 
look Avith brother Ned ; but just then Nicholas stopped to refer 
to some other page, and Tim Linkinwater, unable to contain his 
satisfaction any longer, descended from his stool and caught 
him rapturously by the hand. 

" He has done it," said Tim, looking round at his employers 
and shaking his head triumphantly. " His capital B's and D's 
are exactly like mine ; he dots all his small i's and crosses every t 
as he writes it. There an't such a young man as this in all 
London," said Tim, clapping Nicholas on the back , "not one. 
Don't tell me. The city can't produce his equal. I challenge 
the city to do it ! 

With this casting down of his gauntlet, Tim Linkinwater 
struck the desk such a blow with his clenched fist, that the old 
blackbird tumbled off his perch with the start it gave him, and 
actually uttered a feeble croak in the extremity of his aston- 
ishment. 

" Well said, Tim — well said, Tim Linkinwater !" cried Bro- 
ther Charles, scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clap- 
ping his hands gently as he spoke. " I knew our young friend 
would take great pains, and I was quite certain he would suc- 
ceed, in no time. Didn't I say so, brother Ned ?" 

" You did, my dear brother — certainly, my dear brother, you 
said so, and you were quite right," replied Ned. " Quite right, 
Tim Linkinwater is excited, but he is justly excited, properly 
excited. Tim is a fine fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir — you're 
a fine fellow." 

" Here's a pleasant thing to think of," said Tim, wholly re- 




334 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

gardless of this address to himself, and raising his spectacles 
from the ledger to the brothers. " Here's a pleasant thing. 
Do you suppose I haven't often thought what would become of 
these books when I was gone ? Do you suppose I haven't often 
thought that things might go on irregular and untidy, here, 
after I was taken away ? But now," said Tim, extending his 
forefinger towards Nicholas, " now, when I've shown him a lit- 
tle more, I'm satisfied. The business will go on when I'm dead 
as well as it did when I was alive — -just the same; and I shall 
have the satisfaction of knowing* that there never were such 
books — never were such books ! No, nor never will be such 
books — as the books of Cheeryble Brothers." 

Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr. Linkinwater gave 
vent to a short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of Lon- 
don and Westminster, and turning again to his desk quietly car- 
ried seventy-six from the last column he had added up, and 
went on with his work. 

" Tim Linkinwater, sir," said brother Charles ; " give me 
your hand, sir. This is your birthday. How dare you talk 
about anything else till you have been wished many happy re- 
turns of the day, Tim Linkinwater ! God bless you, Tim ! God 
bless you ! 

" My dear brother," said the other, seizing Tim's disengaged 
fist, " Tim Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on 
his last birthday." 

" Brother Ned, my dear bo) r ," returned the old fellow, " I 
believe Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred-and-fifty years 
old, and is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty ; for he's 
younger every birthday than he was the year before." 

" So he is, brother Charles, so he is," replied brother Ned. 
" There's not a doubt about it." 

"Remember, Tim," said brother Charles, "that we dine at 
half-past five to-day instead of two o'clock ; we always depart 
from our usual custom on this anniversary, as you very well 
know, Tim Linkinwater. Mr. Nickleby, my dear sir, you will 
make one. Tim Linkinwater, give me your snuff-box as a 
remembrance to brother Charles and myself of an attached and 
faithful rascal, and take that in exchange as a feeble mark of 
our respect and esteem ; and don't open it until you go to bed, 
and never say another word upon the subject, or I'll kill the 
blackbird. A dog ! He should have had a golden cage half-a- 
dozen years ago, if it would have made him or his master a bit 
the happier. Now, brother Ned, my dear fellow, I'm ready. 
At half-past five, remember, Mr. Nickleby. Tim Linkinwater, 



THE BROTHERS CHEER YBLE. 335 

sir, take care of Mr. Nickleby at half-past five. Now, brother 
Ned." 

Chattering away thus, according- to custom, to prevent the 
possibility of any thanks or acknowledgment being expressed on 
the other side, the twins trotted off arm in arm, having endowed 
Tim Linkinwater with a costly gold snuff-box, inclosing a bank- 
note worth more than its value ten times told. 

At a quarter past five o'clock, punctual to the minute, arrived, 
according to annual usage, Tim Linkinwater's sister ; and a 
great to-do there was between Tim Linkinwater's sister and the 
old housekeeper respecting Tim Linkinwater's sister's cap, which 
had been dispatched, per boy, from the house of the family, 
where Tim Linkinwater's sister boarded, and had not yet come 
to hand, notwithstanding that it had been packed up in a band- 
box, and the bandbox in a handkerchief, and the handkerchief 
tied on to the boy's arm ; and notwithstanding, too, that the 
place of its consignment had been duly set forth at full length 
on the back of an old letter, and the boy enjoined, under pain 
of divers horrible penalties, the full extent of which the eye of 
man could not foresee, to deliver the same with all possible 
speed, and not to loiter by the way. Tim Linkinwater's sister 
lamented ; the housekeeper condoled, and both kept thrusting 
their heads out of the second floor window to see if the boy was 
" coming" — which would have been highly satisfactory, and, 
upon the whole, tantamount to his being come, as the distance 
to the corner was not quite five yards — when all of a sudden, 
and when he was least expected, the messenger, carrying the 
bandbox with elaborate caution, appeared in an exactly opposite 
direction, puffing and panting for breath, and flushed with recent 
exercise, as well he might be ; for he had taken the air, in the 
first instance, behind a hackney-coach that went to Camberwell, 
and had followed two Punches afterwards, and had seen the 
Stilts home to their own door. The cap was all safe, however — 
that was one comfort — and it was no use scolding him — that 
was another ; so the boy went upon his way rejoicing, and Tim 
Linkinwater's sister presented herself to the company below 
stairs just five minutes after the half-hour had struck by Tim 
Linkinwater's own infallible clock. 

The company consisted of the brothers Cheeryble, Tim Link- 
inwater, a ruddy-faced white-headed friend of Tim's, (who was 
a superannuated bank clerk,) and Nicholas, who was presented 
to Tim Linkinwater's sister with much gravity and solemnity. 
The party being now complete, brother Ned rang for dinner, 
and, dinner being shortly afterwards announced, led Tim Link- 



336 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

inwater's sister into the next room, where it was set forth with 
great preparation. Then brother Ned took the head of the 
table and brother Charles the foot ; and Tim Linkin water's sis- 
ter sat on the left-hand of brother Ned, and Tim Linkinwater 
himself on his right ; and an ancient butler of apoplectic appear- 
ance, and with very short legs, took up his position at the back 
of brother Ned's arm-chair, and waiving his right arm prepara- 
tory to taking off the covers with a nourish, stood bolt upright 
and motionless. 

" For these and all other blessings, brother Charles," said 
Ned. 

" Lord, make us truly thankful, brother Ned," said Charles. 

Whereupon the apoplectic butler whisked off the top of the 
soup tureen, and shot all at once into a state of violent activity. 

There was abundance of conversation, and little fear of its 
ever flagging, for the good-humor of the glorious old twins drew 
every body out, and Tim Linkinwater's sister went off into a 
long and circumstantial account of Tim Linkinwater's infancy, 
immediately after the very first glass of champagne — taking care 
to premise that she was very much Tim's junior, and had only 
become acquainted with the facts from their being preserved 
and handed down in the family. This history concluded, bro- 
ther Ned related how that, exactly thirty-five years ago, Tim 
Linkinwater was suspected to have received a love-letter, and 
how that vague information had been brought to the counting- 
house of his having been seen walking down Cheapside with an 
uncommonly handsome spinster ; at which there was a roar of 
laughter; and Tim Linkinwater being charged with blushing, 
and called upon to explain, denied that the accusation was true ; 
and further, that there would have been any harm in it if it had 
been ; which last position occasioned the superannuated bank 
clerk to laugh tremendously and to declare that it was the very 
best thing he had ever heard in his life, and that Tim Linkin- 
water might say a great many things before he said anything 
which would beat that. 

There was one little ceremony peculiar to the day, both the 
matter and manner of which made a very strong impression 
upon Nicholas. The cloth having been removed and the decan- 
ters sent round for the first time, a profound silence succeeded, 
and in the cheerful faces of the brothers there appeared an ex- 
pression, not of absolute melancholy, but of quiet thoughtfulness 
very unusual at a festive table. As Nicholas, struck by this 
sudden alteration, was wondering what it could portend, the 
brothers rose together, and the one at the top of the table lean- 



THE BROTHERS OHEERYBLE. 33f 

ing forward towards the other, and speaking in a low voice as if 
he were addressing him individually, said — 

" Brother Charles, my dear fellow, there is another associa- 
tion connected with this day which must never be forgotten, and 
never can be forgotten, by you and mej This day, which 
brought into the world a most faithful and exemplary fellow, 
took from it the kindest and very best of parents — the very best 
of parents to us both. I wish that she could have seen us in 
our prosperity, and shared it, and had the happiness of knowing 
how dearly we loved her in it, as we did when we were two 
poor boys— but that was not to be. My dear brother— The 
Memory of our Mother." 

" Good God !" thought Nicholas, " and there are scores of 
people of their own station, knowing all this, and twenty thou- 
sand times more, who wouldn't ask these men to dinner because 
they eat with their knives and never went to school !" 

But there was no time to moralize, for the joviality again be- 
came very brisk, and the decanter of port being nearly out, bro- 
ther Ned pulled the bell, which was instantly answered by the 
apoplectic butler. 

" David," said brother Ned. 

" Sir," replied the butler. 

"A magnum of the double-diamond, David, to drink the 
health of Mr. Linkin water." 

Instantly, by a feat of dexterity which was the admiration of 
all the company, and had been annualiy for some years past, 
the apoplectic butler bringing his left *and from behind the 
small of his back, produced the bottle with the corkscrew 
already inserted ; uncorked it at a jerk, and placed the mag- 
num and the cork before his master with the dignity of conscious 
cleverness. 

" Ha !" said brother Ned, first examining the cork and after- 
wards filling his glass, while the old butler looked complacently 
and amiably on, as if it were all his own property but the com- 
pany were quite welcome to make free with it, " this looks well, 
David." 

" It ought to, . sir," replied David. " You'd be troubled to 
find such a glass of wine as is our double-diamond, and that Mr. 
Linkinwater knows very well. That was laid down when Mr. 
Linkin water first come, that wine was, gentlemen." 

" Nay, David, nay," interposed brother Charles. 

"I wrote the entry in the cellar-book myself, sir, if you 
please," said David, in the tone of a man, quite confident in the 
strength of his facts. " Mr. Linkinwater had only been here 
15 



338 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

twenty year, sir, when that pipe of double -diamond was laid 
down." 

"David is quite right — quite right, brother Charles," said 
Ned : " are all the people here, David ?" 

" Outside the dd^F, sir," replied the butler. 

" Show 'em in, David ; show 'em in." 

At this bidding, the old butler placed before his master a 
small tray of clean glasses, and opening the door admitted the 
jolly porters and warehousemen whom Nicholas had seen below. 
There were four in all, and as they came in, bowing and grin- 
ning, and blushing, the housekeeper and cook and housemaid 
brought up the rear. 

" Seven," said brother Ned, filling a corresponding number 
of glasses with the double -diamond, " and David, eight — There. 
Now, you're all of you to drink the health of your best friend, 
Mr. Timothy Linkinwater, and wish him health and long life, 
and many happy returns of this day, both for his own sake and 
that of your old masters, who consider him an inestimable trea- 
sure. Tim Linkinwater, sir, your health. Devil take you, Tim 
Linkinwater, sir, God bless you." 

With this singular contradiction of terms, brother Ned gave 
Tim Linkinwater a slap on the back which made him look for 
the moment almost as apoplectic as the butler ; and tossed off 
the contents of his glass in a twinkling. 

The toast was scarcely drunk with all honor to Tim Linkin- 
water, when the sturdiest and j oiliest subordinate elbowed him- 
self a little in advance of his fellows, and exhibiting a very hot 
and flushed countenance, pulled a single lock of grey hah* in the 
middle of his forehead as a respectful salute to the company, 
and delivered himself as follows — rubbing the palms of his 
hands very hard on a blue cotton handkerchief as he did so : 

" We're allowed to take a liberty once a year, gen'lemen, and 
if you please we'll take it now ; there being no time like the 
present, and no two birds in the hand worth one in the bush, as 
is well known — leastways in a contrairy sense, which the mean- 
ing is the same. (A pause — the butler unconvinced.) What 
we mean to say is, that there never was (looking at the butler) — 
such — (looking at the cook) noble — excellent — (looking every- 
where and seeing nobody) free, generous, spirited masters as 
them as has treated us so handsome this day. And here's 
thanking 'em for all their goodness as so constancy a diffusing of 
itself everywhere, and wishing they may live long and die 
happy !" 

When the foregoing speech was over, and it might have been 



THE BROTHERS CHEER YBLE. 339 

much more elegant and much less to the purpose, the whole 
body of subordinates under command of the apoplectic butler 
gave three soft cheers ; which, to that gentleman's great indig- 
nation were not very regular, inasmuch as the women persisted 
in giving an immense number of little shrill hurrahs among 
themselves, in utter disregard of the time. This done, they 
withdrew ; shortly afterwards, Tim Linkinw'ater's sister with- 
drew ; and in reasonable time after that, the sitting was broken 
up for tea and coffee and a round game of cards. 

At half past ten — late hours for the square — there appeared 
a little tray of sandwiches and a bowl of bishop, which bishop 
coming on the top of the double diamond and other excite- 
ments, had such an effect upon Tim Linkinwater, that he drew 
Nicholas aside, and gave him to understand confidentially that 
it was quite true about the uncommonly handsome spinster, and 
that she was to the full as good-looking as she had been de- 
scribed — more so, indeed — but that she was in too much of a 
hurry to change her condition, and consequently, while Tim was 
courting her and thinking of changing his — got married to some- 
body else. " After all, I dare say it was my fault," said Tim. 
" I'll show you a print I have got up stairs, one of these days. 
It cost me five-and-twenty shillings. I bought it soon after we 
were cool to each other. Don't mention it, but it's the most 
extraordinary accidental likeness you ever saw — her very por- 
trait, sir !" 

By this time it was past eleven ^ o'clock, and Tim Linkin- 
water's sister declaring that she ought to have been at home a 
full hour ago, a coach was procured, into which she was handed 
with great ceremony by brother Ned, while brother Charles 
imparted the fullest directions to the coachman, and, besides 
paying the man a shilling over and above his fare in order that 
he might take the utmost care of the lady, all but choked him 
with a glass of spirits of uncommon strength, and then nearly 
knocked all the breath out of his body in his energetic endeav- 
ors to knock it in again. 

At length the coach rumbled off, and Tim Linkinwater's sis- 
ter being now fairly on her way home, Nicholas and Tim Link- 
inwater's friend took their leaves together, and left old Tim and 
tLe worthy brothers to their repose. 



340 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



On the Necessity of Union in the Republic,— H. Clay. 

ISTo : I do not desire to see the lustre of one single star 
dimmed, of that glorious confederacy which constitutes our po- 
litical sun ; still less do I wish to see it blotted out, and its 
light obliterated forever. Has not the State of South Carolina 
been one of the members of this Union in " days that tried 
men's souls ?" Have not her ancestors fought alongside our 
ancestors ? Have we not, conjointly, won together many a glo- 
rious battle ? If we had to go into a civil war with such a 
State, how would it terminate ? Whenever it should have ter- 
minated, what would be her condition ? If she should ever re- 
turn to the Union, what would be the condition of her feelings 
and affections ? what the state of the heart of her people ? She 
has been with us before, when her ancestors mingled in the 
throng of battle, and as I hope our posterity will mingle with 
hers, for ages and centuries to come, in the united defense of 
liberty, and for the honor and glory of the Union. I do not 
wish to see her degraded or defaced as a member of this con- 
federacy. 

In conclusion, allow me to entreat and implore each individ- 
ual member of this body to bring into the consideration of this 
measure, which I have had the honor of proposing, the same 
love of country, which, if I know myself, has actuated me, and 
the same desire of restoring harmony to the Union, which has 
prompted this effort. If we can forget for a moment — but that 
would be asking too much of human nature — if we could sup- 
press, for one moment, party feelings and party causes — and, 
as I stand here before my God, I declare I have looked beyond 
these considerations, and regarded only the vast interests of 
this united people — I should hope, that under such feelings, 
and with such dispositions, we ma)'- advantageously proceed to 
the consideration of this bill, and heal, before they are yet 
bleeding, the wounds of our distracted country. 



AN IRISH VILLAGE AND SCHOOL-HOUSE. 341 

Picture of an Irish Village and School-house, 

William Cakleton. 

The village of Findramore was situated at the foot of a long 
green hill, the outline of which formed a low arch, as it rose to 
the eye against the horizon. This hill Was studded with clumps 
of beeches, and sometimes enclosed as a meadow. In the 
month of July, when the grass on it was long, many an hour 
have I spent in solitary enjoyment, watching the wavy motion 
produced upon its pliant surface by the sunny winds, or the 
flight of the cloud shadows, like gigantic phantoms, as they 
swept rapidly over it, whilst the murmur of the rocking trees, 
and the glancing of their bright leaves in the sun, produced a 
heartfelt pleasure, the very memory of which rises in my imagi- 
nation like some fading recollection of a brighter world. 

At the foot of this hill ran a clear deep-banked river, bound- 
ed on one side by a slip of rich level meadow, and on the other 
by a kind of common for the village geese, whoso white feathers 
during the summer season lay scattered over its green surface. 
It was also the play-ground for the boys of the village school ; 
for there ran that part of the river which, with very correct 
judgment, the urchins had selected as their bathing-place. A 
little slope or watering-ground in the bank brought them to the 
edge of the stream, where the bottom fell away into the fear- 
ful depths of the whirlpool under the hanging oak on the other 
bank. Well do I remember the first time I ventured to swim 
across it, and even yet do I see in imagination the two bunches 
of water-flagons on which the inexperienced swimmers trusted 
themselves in the water. 

About two hundred yards above this, the boreen which led 
from the village to the main road crossed the river by one of 
those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches 
across the road — an almost impassable barrier to horse and car. 
On passing the bridge in a northern direction, you found a 
range of low thatched houses on each side of the road ; and if 
one o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew near, you might observe 
columns of blue smoke curling up from a row of chimneys, 
some made of wicker creels plastered over with a rich coat of 
mud, some of old narrow bottomless tubs, and others, with a 
greater appearance of taste, ornamented with thick circular 
ropes of straw sewed together like bee's skeps with the peel of 
a brier ; and many having nothing but the open vent above. 
But the smoke by no means escaped by its legitimate aperture, 



342 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

for you might observe little clouds of it bursting out of the doors 
and windows ; the panes of the latter being mostly stopped 
at other times with old hats and rags, were now left entirely 
open for the purpose of giving it a free escape. 

Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, 
each with its concomitant sink of green rotten water ; and if it 
happened that a stout-looking woman with watery eyes, and a 
yellow cap hung loosely upon her matted locks, came, with a 
chubby urchin on one arm and a pot of dirty water in her 
hand, its unceremonious ejection in the aforesaid sink would be 
apt to send you up the village with your finger and thumb (for 
what purpose you would yourself perfectly understand) closely, 
but not knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But independently 
of this, you would be apt to have other reasons for giving your 
horse, whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen bark- 
ing curs, and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty 
sharp touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bitterly of 
the odor of the atmosphere. It is no landscape without figures ; 
and you might notice — if you are, as I suppose you to be, a 
man of observation — in every sink as you pass along a " slip of 
a pig" stretched in the middle of the mud, the very beau ideal 
of luxury, giving occasionally a ltfng luxuriant grunt, highly ex- 
pressive of his enjoyment; or perhaps an old farrower, lying in 
indolent repose, with half a dozen young ones jostling each other 
for their draught, and punching her belly with their little 
snouts, reckless of the fumes they are creating ; whilst the loud 
crow of the cock, as he confidently flaps his wings on his own 
dunghill, gives the warning note for the hour of dinner. 

As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust 
out of the doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a gro- 
tesque visage peeping by a short cut through the paneless win- 
dows, or a tattered female flying to snatch up her urchin that 
has been tumbling itself heels up in the dust of the road, lest 
" the gintleman's horse might ride over it ;" and if you happen 
to look behind, you may observe a shaggy- headed youth in 
tattered frize, with one hand thrust indolently in his breast, 
standing at the door in conversation with the inmates, a broad 
grin of sarcastic ridicule on his face, in the act of breaking a 
joke or two upon yourself or your horse ; or perhaps your jaw 
may be saluted with a lump of clay, just hard enough not to 
fall asunder as it flies, cast by some ragged gorsoon from behind 
a hedge, who squats himself in a ridge of corn to avoid de- 
tection. 

Seated upon a hob at the door you may observe a toil-worn 



AN IRISH VILLAGE AND SOHOOL-HOUSE. 343 

man without coat or waistcoat, his red muscular, sun-burnt shoul- 
der peering through the remnant of a shirt, mending his shoes 
with a piece of twisted flax, called a lingel, or perhaps sewing 
two footless stockings, or martyeens, to his coat, as a substitute 
for sleeves. 

In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you 
will see a solitary laborer, working with that carelessness and 
apathy that characterize an Irishman when he labors for himself, 
leaning upon his spade to look after you, and glad of any ex- 
cuse to be idle. 

The nouses, however, are not all such as I have described — 
far from it. You see here and there, between the more humble 
cabins, a stout comfortable-looking farm-house with ornamental 
thatching and well-glazed windows; adjoining to which is a 
hay-yard with five or six large stacks of corn, well-trimmed and 
roped, and a fine yellow weather-beaten old hayrick, half-cut— 
not taking into account twelve or thirteen circular strata of 
stones that mark out the foundations on which others had been 
raised. Neither is the rich smell of oaten or wheaten bread, 
which the good- wife is baking on the griddle, unpleasant to 
your nostrils ; nor would the bubbling of a large pot, in which 
you might see, should you chance to enter, a prodigious square 
of fat, yellow, and almost transparent bacon tumbling about, 
be an unpleasant object ; truly, as it hangs over a large fire, 
with well-swept hearthstone, it is in good keeping with the 
white settle and chairs, and the dresser with noggins, wooden 
trenchers, and pewter dishes, perfectly clean, and as well pol- 
ished as a French courtier. 

As you leave the village, you have, to the left, a view of the 
hill which I have already described, and to the right a level ex- 
panse of fertile country, bounded by a good view of respectable 
mountains peering decently into the sky ; and in a line that 
forms an acute angle from the point of the road where you ride 
is a delightful valley, in the bottom of which shines a pretty 
lake ; and a little beyond, on the slope of a green hill, rises a 
splendid house, surrounded by a park well- wooded and stocked 
with deer. You have now topped the little hill above the vil- 
lage, and a straight line of level road, a mile long, goes forward 
to a country town which lies immediately behind that white 
church with its spire cutting into the sky before you. You de- 
scend on the other side, and having advanced a few perches, 
look to the left, where you see a long thatched chapel, only 
distinguished from a dwelling-house by its want of chimneys, 
and a small stone cross that stands on the toj^pf the eastern 



344 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

gable ; behind it is a grave-yard, and beside it a snug public- 
house, well white-washed ; then, to the right, you observe a 
door apparently in the side of a clay bank, which rises consider- 
ably above the pavement of the road. What! you ask your- 
self, can this be a human habitation ! But ere you have time to 
answer the question, a confused buzz of voices from within 
reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little gorsoon with a 
red close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his hand a 
short white stick, or the thigh-bone of a horse, which you at once 
recognize as the "pass" of a village school, gives you the full 
information. He has an ink-horn, covered with leather, dangling 
at the button-hole (for he has long since played away the but- 
tons) of his frize jacket — his mouth is circumscribed with a 
streak of ink — his pen is stuck knowingly behind his ear — his 
shins are dotted over with fire-blisters, black, red, and blue — on 
each heel a kibe — his " leather crackers" — videlicet, breeches — 
shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far down as the caps 
of his knees. Having spied you, he places his hand over his 
brows, to throw back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers at 
you from under it, till he breaks out into a laugh, exclaim- 
ing, half to himself, half to you — 

" You a gintleman !— no, nor one of your breed never was, 
you procthorin' thief you !" 

You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, 
when half a dozen of those seated next it notice you. 

" Oh, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse ! — masther, sir, here's 
a gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that's look- 
ing in at us." 

" Silence !" exclaims the master ; "back from the door — 
boys rehearse — every one of you rehearse, I say, you Boeotians, 
till the gintleman goes past !" 

" I want to go out, if you plase, sir." 

" No, you don't, Phelim." 

" I do, indeed, sir." 

" What ! is it afther conthradictin' me you'd be ? Don't you 
see the ' porter's' out, and you can't go." 

" Well, 'tis Mat Meehan has it, sir ; and he's out this half- 
hour, sir; I can't stay in, sir." 

" You want to be idling your time looking at the gintleman, 
Phelim." 

*' No, indeed, sir." 

" Phelim, I know you of ould — go to your sate. I tell you, 
Phelim, you were born for the encouragement of the hemp 
manufacture, #nd you'll die promoting it." 



ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF HUDIBRAS. 345 

In the mean time the master puts his head out of the door, 
his body stooped to a " half-bend" — a phrase, and the exact 
curve which it forms, I leave for the present to your own sa- 
gacity — and surveys you until you pass. That is an Irish 
hedge-school, and the personage who follows you with his eye 
a hedge-schoolmaster. 



Accomplishments of Hudibr 'as.— Butler, 

A wight he was, whose very sight would 
Entitle him, mirror of knighthood ; 
That never bowed his stubborn knee 
To anything but chivalry ; 
Nor put up blow, but that which laid 
Right-worshipful on shoulder-blade : 
Chief of domestic knights and errant, 
Either for chartel or for warrant: 
Great on the bench, great on the saddle, 
That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle : 
Mighty he was at both of these, 
And styled of war as well as peace. 
(So some rats, of amphibious nature, 
Are either for the land or water.) 
But here our authors make a doubt, 
"Whether he were more wise or stout ; 
Some hold the one, and some the other : 
But howsoe'er they make a pother, 
The difference was so small, his brain 
Outweighed his rage but half a grain ; - 
Which made some take him for a tool 
That knaves do work with, called a fool. 
For 't has been held by many, that 
As Montaigne, playing with his cat, 
Complains -she thought him but an ass, 
Much more she would Sir Hudibras. 
(For that's the name our valiant knight 
To all his challenges did write.) 
But they're. mistaken very much ; 
'Tis plain enough he was no such : 
We grant, although -he had much wit, 
He was very shy of using it; 
As being loath to wear it out, 
And therefore bore it not about ; 
Unless on holidays, or so, 
As men their best apparel do ; 
Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 
As naturally as pigs squeak; 
15* 



THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST, 

That Latin was no more difficile, 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle ; 

Being rich in both, he never scanted 

His bounty unto such as wanted ; 

But much of either would afford 

To many, that had not one word. 

He was in logic a great critic, 

Profoundly skilled in analytic; 

He could distinguish, and divide ■ i 

A hair 'twixt south and southwest side ; 

On either which he would dispute 

Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 

He'd undertake to prove by force 

Of argument a man's no horse ; 

He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 

And that a lord may be an owl, 

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 

And rooks committee-men and trustees. 

He'd run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination : 

All this by syllogism, true 

In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 

His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 

And when he happened to break off 

I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 

H' had hard words, ready to show why, 

And tell what rules he did it by : 

Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 

You'd think he talked like other folk ; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech. 

In loftiness of sound was rich ; 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect: 

It was a party-colored dress 

Of i patched and piebald languages ; 

'Twas English cut on Creek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin. 

It had an old promiscuous tone, 

As if he had talked three parts in one ; 

Which made some think, when he did gabble, 

Th' had heard three laborers of Babel ; 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

This he as volubly would vent 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 

And truly, to support that charge, 

He had supplies as vast and large : 

For he could coin or counterfeit 

New words, with little or no wit ; 

Words so debased and hard, no stone 



UNIVERSAL GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 347 

Was hard enough to touch them on : 
And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 
The ignorant for current took 'em ; 
That had the orator, who once 
Did fill his mouth with pebble stones 
When he harangued, but known his phrase, 
He would have used no other ways. 



Tribute to the Universal Genius of Shakspeare. 

Francis Jeffrey. 

Many persons are very sensible of the effect of fine poetry 
upon their feelings, who do not well know how to refer these 
feelings to their causes ; and it is always a delightful thing to 
be made to see clearly the sources from which our delight has 
proceeded, and to trace the mingled stream that has flowed 
upon our hearts to the remoter fountains from which it has been 
gathered ; and when this is done with warmth as well as pre- 
cision, and embodied in an eloquent description of the beauty 
which is explained, it forms one of the most attractive, and not 
the least instructive, of literary exercises. In all works of merit, 
however, and especially in all works of original genius, there are 
a thousand retiring and less obtrusive graces, which escape hasty 
and superficial observers, and only give out their beauties to 
fond and patient contemplation ; a thousand slight and harmoni- 
zing touches, the merit and the effect of which are equally imper- 
ceptible to vulgar eyes ; and a thousand indications of the continual 
presence of that poetical spirit which can only be recognized by 
those who are in some measure under its influence, and have 
prepared themselves to receive it, by worshipping meekly at the 
shrines which it inhabits. 

In the exposition of these there is room enough for originality, 
and more room than Mr. Hazlitt has yet filled. In many points, 
however, he has acquitted himself excellently ; particularly in 
the development of the principal characters with which Shak- 
speare has peopled the fancies of all English readers — but prin- 
cipally, we think, in the delicate sensibility with which he has 
traced, and the natural eloquence with which he has pointed 
out, that familiarity with beautiful forms and images — that eter- 
nal recurrence to what is sweet or majestic in the simple aspect 
of nature — that indestructible love of flowers and odors, and 



348 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

dews and clear waters, and soft airs and sounds, and bright 
skies, and woodland solitudes, and moonlight bowers, which are 
the material elements of poetry— and that fine sense of their in- 
definable relation to mental emotion, which is its essence and 
vivifying soul— and which, in the midst of Shakspeare's most 
busy and atrocious scenes, falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks 
and ruins — contrasting with all that is rugged and repulsive, 
and reminding us of the existence of purer and brighter elements 
— which he alone has poured out from the richness of his own 
mind without effort or restraint, and contrived to intermingle 
with the play of all the passions, and the vulgar course of this 
world's affairs, without deserting for an instant the proper busi- 
ness of the scene, or appearing to pause or digress from love of 
ornament or need of repose; he alone, who, -when the subject 
requires it, is always keen, and worldly, and practical, and who 
yet, without changing his hand, or stopping his course, scatters 
around him as he goes all sounds and shapes of sweetness, and 
conjures up landscapes of immortal fragrance and freshness, and 
peoples them witlnspirits of glorious aspect and attractive grace, 
and is a thousand times more full of imagery and splendor than 
those who, for the sake of such qualities, have shrunk back from 
the delineation of character or passion, and declined the discus- 
sion of human duties and cares. More full of wisdom, and 
ridicule, and sagacity, than all the moralists and satirists in exist- 
ence, he is more wild, airy, and inventive, and more pathetic 
and fantastic, than all the poets of all regions and ages of the 
world ; and has all those elements so happily mixed up in him, 
and bears his high faculties so temperately, that the most severe 
reader cannot complain of him for want of strength or of reason, 
nor the most sensitive for defect of ornament or ingenuity. Ev- 
erything in him is in unmeasured abundance and unequalled 
perfection; but everything so balanced and kept in subordina- 
tion, as not to jostle or disturb or take the place of another. 
The most exquisite poetical conceptions, images, and descrip- 
tions, are given with such brevity, and introduced with such 
skill, as merely to adorn without loading the sense they accom- 
pany. Although his sails are purple, and perfumed, and his 
prow of beaten gold, they waft him on his voyage, not less, but 
more rapidly and directly, than if they had been composed of 
baser materials. All his excellences, like those of Nature her- 
self, are thrown out together ; and instead of interfering with, 
support and recommend each other. His flowers are not tied 
up in garlands, nor his fruits crushed into baskets, but spring 
living from the soil, in all the dew and freshness of youth ; 



THE PIONEER. 349 

while the graceful foliage in which they lurk, and the ample 
branches, the rough and vigorous stem, and the wide-spreading 
roots on which they depend, are present along with them, and 
share, in their places, the equal care of their Creator. 



The Pioneer,— Brainard. 



Far away from the hillside, the lake, and the hamlet, 

The rock and the brook, and yon meadow so gay ; 
From the footpath, that winds by the side of the streamlet, 

From his hut and the grave of his friend far away ; 
He is gone where the footsteps of man never ventured, 
Where the glooms of the wild tangled forest are centered, 
Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered, 
No bloodhound has roused up the deer with his bay. 

He has left the green valley, for paths where the bison 
Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood ; 

Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison, 
And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for his food. 

But the leaf shall be greener, the sky shall be purer, 

The eye shall be clearer, the rifle be surer, 

And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer, 

That trusts naught hut Heaven, in his way through the wood, 

Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer, 
Firm be his step through each wearisome mile, 

Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer, 
Far from the track of the mean and the vile ; 

And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him, 

And all but the last throb of memory fails him, 

He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him, 
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile. 

And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre, 

There for his pall shall the oak leaves be spread ; 
The sweetbriar shall bloom, and the wild grape shall cluster, 

And o er him the leaves of the ivy be shed. 
There shall they mix with the fern and the heather, 
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather, 
The wolf with his wild cubs shall lie there together, 
And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid. 



350 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Character of Franklin,— Bancroft. 

With placid tranquillity, Benjamin Franklin looked quietly 
and deeply into the secrets of nature. His clear understanding 
was never perverted by passion, or corrupted by the pride of 
theory. The son of a rigid Calvinist, the grandson of a tolerant 
Quaker, he had from boyhood been familiar, not only with theo- 
logical subtil ties, but with a catholic respect for freedom of 
mind. Skeptical of tradition as the basis of faith, he respected 
reason rather than authority ; and, after a momentary lapse into 
fatalism, escaping from the mazes of fixed decrees and free will, 
he gained, with increasing years, an increasing trust in the over- 
ruling providence of God. Adhering to none " of all the reli- 
gions" in the colonies, he yet devoutly, though without form, 
adhered to religion. But though famous as a disputant, and 
having a natural aptitude for metaphysics, he obeyed the ten- 
dency of his age, and sought by observation to win an insight 
into the mysteries of being. Loving truth, without prejudice 
and without bias, he discerned intuitively the identity of the 
laws of nature with those of which humanity is conscious ; so 
that his mind was like a mirror, in which the universe, as it re- 
flected itself, revealed her laws. He was free from mysticism, 
even to a fault. His morality, repudiating ascetic severities, 
and the system which enjoins them, was indulgent to appetites 
of which he abhorred the sway ; but his affections were of a 
calm intensity ; in all his career, the love of man gained the 
mastery over personal interest. He had not the imagination 
which inspires the bard or kindles the orator ; but an exquisite 
propriety, parsimonious of ornament, gave ease of expression 
and graceful simplicity even to his most careless writings. In 
life, also, his tastes were delicate. Indifferent to the pleasures 
of the table, he relished the delights of music and harmony, of 
which he enlarged the instruments. His blandness of temper, 
his modesty, the benignity of his manners, made him the favor- 
ite of intelligent society ; and, with healthy cheerfulness, he 
derived pleasure from books, from philosophy, from conversa- 
tion — now calmly administering consolation to the sorrower, 
now indulging in the expression of light-hearted gayety. In his 
intercourse, the universality of his perceptions bore, perhaps, 
the character of humor; but, while he clearly discerned the 
contrast between the grandeur of the universe and the feeble- 
ness of man, a serene benevolence saved him from contempt of 
bis race, or disgust at its toils. To superficial observers, he 



SONG- OF THE BELL. 35I 

might have seemed as an alien from speculative truth, limiting 
himself to the world of the senses ; and yet, in study, and 
among men, his mind always sought, with unaffected simplicity, 
to discover and apply the general principles by which nature 
and affairs are controlled — -now deducing from the theory of 
caloric improvements in fireplaces and lanterns, and now ad- 
vancing human freedom by firm inductions from the inalienable 
rights of man. Never professing enthusiasm, never making a 
parade of sentiment, his practical wisdom was sometimes mis- 
taken for the offspring of selfish prudence ; yet his hope was 
steadfast, like that hope which rests on the Rock of Ages, and 
his conduct was as unerring as though the light that led him 
was a light from heaven. He never anticipated action by theo- 
ries of self-sacrificing virtue ; and yet, in the moments of intense 
activity, he, from the highest abodes of ideal truth, brought 
down and applied to the affairs of life the sublimest principles 
of goodness, as noiselessly and unostentatiously as became the 
man who, with a kite and hempen string, drew the lightning 
from the skies. He separated himself so little from his age, 
that he has been called the representative of materialism ; and 
yet, when he thought on religion, his mind passed beyond reli- 
ance on sects to faith in God ; when he wrote on politics, he 
founded the freedom of his- country on principles that know no 
change ; when he turned an observing eye on nature, he passed 
always from the effect to the cause, from individual appearan- 
ces to universal laws ;* when he reflected on history, his philo- 
sophic mind found gladness and repose in the clear anticipation 
of the progress of humanity. 



Song of the Bell.— Schiller. 

Fastened deep "n firmest earth, 

Stands the mould of well-burnt clay. 
Now we'll give the bell its birth ; 
Quick, my friends, no more delay ! 
From the heated brow 
Sweat must freely flow, 
If to your master praise be given : 
But the blessing comes from Heaven. 



352 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

To the work we now prepare 

A serious thought is surely due ; 
And cheerfully the toil we'll share, 

If cheerful words be mingled too. 
Then let us still with care observe 

What from our" strength, yet weakness springs ; 
For he respect can ne'er deserve 

Who hands alone to labor brings. 
'Tis only this which honors man ; 

His mind with heavenly fire was warmed, 
That he with deepest thought might scan 

The work which his own hand has formed. 

With splinters of the driest pine 

Wow feed the fire below ; 
Then the rising flame shall shine, 
And the melting ore shall flow. 
Boils the brass within, 
Quickly add the tin; 
That the thick metallic mass 
Rightly to the mould may pass. 

1 What with the aid of fire's dread power 

We in the dark, deep pit now hide, 
Shall, on some lofty, sacred tower, 

Tell of our skill and form our pride. 
And it shall last to days remote, 

Shall thrill the ear of many a race ; 
Shall sound with sorrow's mournful note, 

And call to pure devotion's grace. 
Whatever to the sons of earth 

Their changing destiny brings down, 
To the deep, solemn clang gives birth, 

That rings from out this metal crown. 

See, the boiling surface, whitening, 
Shows the whole is mixing well ; 
Add the salts, the metal brightening, 
Ere flows out the liquid bell. 
Clear from foam or scum 
Must the mixture come, 
That with a rich metallic note 
The sound aloft in air may float. 

Now with joy and festive mirth 
Salute that loved and lovely child, 

Whose earliest moments on the earth 
Are passed in sleep's dominion mild. 

While on Time's lap he rests his head, 

The fatal sisters spin their thread ; 
A mother's love, with softest rays, 
Gilds o'er the morning of his days. 

But years with arrowy haste are fled. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 353 

His nursery bonds he proudly spurns ; 

He rushes to the world -without ; 
After long wandering, home he turns, 

Arrives a stranger and in doubt. 
There, lovely in her beauty's youth, 

A form of heavenly mould he meets, 
Of modest air and simple truth ; 

The blushing maid he bashful greets. 
A nameless feeling seizes strong 

On his young heart. He walks alone ; 
To his moist eyes emotions throng ; 

His joy in ruder sports has flown. 
He follows, blushing, where she goes ; 

And should her smile but welcome him, 
The fairest flower, the dewy rose, 

To deck her beauty seems too dim. 
tenderest passion ! Sweetest hope I 

The golden hours of earliest love ! 
Heaven's self to him appears to ope ; 

He feels a bliss this earth above. 
O, that it could eternal last ! 
That youthful love were never past I 



See how brown the liquid turns ! 
Now this rod I thrust within ; 
If it's glazed before it burns, 
Then the casting may begin. 
Quick, my lads, and steady, 
If the mixture's ready ! 
When the strong and weaker blend. 
Then we hope a happy end : 
Whenever strength with softness joins, 
When with the rough the mild combines, 

Then all is union sweet and strong. 
Consider, ye who join your hands, 
If hearts are twined in mutual hands ; 
For passion's brief, repentance long. 
How lovely in the maiden's hair 

The bridal garland plays ! 
And merry bells invite us there, 
Where mingle festive lays. 
Alas ! that all life's brightest hours 
Are ended with its earliest May ! 
That from those sacred nuptial bowers 
The dear deceit should pass away I 
Though passion may fly, 
Yet love will endure ; 
The flower must die, 
The fruit to insure. 
The man must without, 
Into struggling life; 
With toiling and strife, 



354 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

He must plan and contrive ; 

Must be prudent to thrive ; 

With boldness must dare, 

Good fortune to share. 
'Tis by means such as these, that abundance is poured 
In a full, endless stream, to increase all his hoard, 
While his house to a palace spreads out. 

Within doors governs 
The modest, careful wife, 
The children's kind mother ; 
And wise is the rule 
Of her household school. 
She teaches the girls, 
And she warns the boys ; 
She directs all the bands 
Of diligent hands, 
And increases their gain 
By her orderly reign. 
And she fills with her treasures her sweet-scented chests 
From the toil of her spinning-wheel scarcely she rests ; 
And she gathers in order, so cleanly and bright, 
The softest of wool, and the linen snow-white : 
The useful and pleasant she mingles ever, 
And is slothful never. 
The father, cheerful from the door, 

His wide-extended homestead eyes ; 
Tells all his smiling fortunes o'er ; 
The future columns in his trees, 
His barn's well-furnished stock he sees, 
His granaries e'en now o'erflowing, 
While yet the waving corn is growing. 
He boasts with swelling pride, 
" Firm as the mountain's side 
Against the shock of fate 
Is now my happy state." 
Who can discern futurity ? 
Who can insure prosperity ? 
Quick misfortune's arrow flies. 

Now we may begin to cast ; 

All is right and well prepared ; 

Yet ere the anxious moment's past, 

A pious hope by all be shared. 

Strike the stopper clear ! 

God preserve us here ! 
Sparkling, to the rounded mould 
It rushes hot, like liquid gold. 
How useful is the power of flame, 
If human skill control and tame! 
And much of all that man can boast, 
Without this child of Heaven, were lost. 
But frightful is her changing mien, 
When, bursting from her bonds, she's seen 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



355 



To quit the safe and quiet hearth, 
And wander lawless o'er the earth. 
"Woe to those whom then she meets ! 

Against her fury who can stand ? 
Along the thickly peopled streets 
She madly hurls her fearful brand. 
Then the elements, with joy, 
Man's best handiwork destroy. 
From the clouds 
Falls amain 
The blessed rain : 
From the clouds alike 
Lightnings strike. 
Einging loud the fearful knell, 
Sounds the bell. 
Dark blood-red 
Are all the skies ; 
But no dawning light is spread. 
What wild cries 
From the streets arise ! 
Smoke dims the eyes. 
Flickering mounts the fiery glow 
Along the street's extended row, 
Fast as fiercest winds can blow. 
Bright, as with a furnace glare, 
And scorching, is the heated air ; 
Beams are falling, children crying, 
Windows breaking, mothers flying, 
Creatures moaning, crushed and dying- 
All is uproar, hurry, flight, 
And light as day the dreadful night. 
Along the eager living lane, 

Though all in vain, 
Speeds the bucket. The engine's power 
Sends the artificial shower. 
But see, the heavens still threatening lower ! 
The winds rush roaring to the flame. 
Cinders on the store-house frame, 
And its drier stores, fall thick ; 
While kindling, blazing, mounting quick, 
As though it would, at one fell sweep, 
All that on the earth is found 
Scatter wide in ruin round, 
Swells the flame to heaven's blue deep, 
With giant size. 
Hope now dies. 
Man must yield to Heaven's decrees. 
Submissive, yet appalled, he sees 
His fairest works in ashes sleep. 

All burnt over 
Is the place, 
The storm's wild home. How changed its face ! 



356 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

In the empty, ruined wall 

Dwells dark horror ; 
While heaven's clouds in shadow fall 

Deep within. 

One look, 
In memory sad, 
Of all he had, 
The unhappy sufferer took — 
Then found his heart might yet be glad. 

However hard his lot to bear, 
His choicest treasures still remain : 
He calls for each with anxious pain, 
And every loved one's with him there. 

To the earth it's now committed. 

With success the mould is filled. 
To skill and care alone's permitted 
A perfect work with toil to build. 
Is the casting right? 
Is the mould yet tight? 
Ah ! while now with hope we wait, 
. Mischance, perhaps, attends its fate. 
To the dark lap of mother earth 
We now confide what We have made ; 
As in earth too the seed is laid, 
In hope the seasons will give birth 

. To fruits that soon may be displayed. 
And yet more precious seed we sow 

With sorrow in the world's wide field ; 
And hope, though in the grave laid low, 
A flower of heavenly hue 't will yield, 

Slow and heavy 
Hear it swell ! 
'Tis the solemn 
Passing bell ! 
Sad we follow, with these sounds of woe, 
Those who on this last, long journey go. 
Alas ! the wife — it is the dear one — 
Ah ! it is the faithful mother, 
Whom the shadowy king of fear 
Tears from all that life holds dear; 
From the husband — from the young, 
The tender blossoms, that have sprung 
From their mutual, faithful love, 
'Twas hers to nourish, guide, improve. 
Ah ! the chain which bound them all 

Is for ever broken now ; 
She cannot hear their tender call, 
Nor see them in affliction bow. 
Her true affection guards no more ; 
Her watchful care wakes not again : 



SONG OF THE BELL. 357 

O'er all the once loved orphan's store 
The indifferent stranger now must reign. 

Till the bell is safely cold, 

May our heavy labor rest ; 
Free as the bird, by none controlled, 
Each may do what pleases best. 
"With approaching night, 
Twinkling stars are bright. 
Yespers call the boys to play ; 
The master's toils end not with day. 

Cheerful in the forest gloom, 

The wanderer turns his weary steps 
To his loved, though lowly home. 
Bleating flocks draw near the fold ; 

And the herds, 
Wide-horned, and smooth, slow-pacing come 
Lowing from the hill, 
The accustomed stall to fill. 

Heavy rolls 

Along the wagon, 

Richly loaded. 

On the sheaves, 

"With gayest leaves 

They form the wreath ; 
And the youthful reapers dance 

Upon the heath. 
Street and market all are quiet, 
And round each domestic light 
Gathers now a circle fond, 
While shuts the creaking city-gate. 

Darkness hovers 

O'er the earth. 
Safety still each sleeper covers 

As with light, 
That the deeds of crime discovers ; 
For wakes the law's protecting night. 

Holy Order ! rich with all 

The gifts of Heaven, that best we call — 

Freedom, peace, and equal laws — 

Of common good the happy cause ! 

She the savage man has taught 

What the arts of life have wrought ; 

Changed the rude hut to comfort, splendor, 

And filled fierce hearts with feelings tender. 

And yet a dearer bond she wove — 

Our home, our country, taught to love. 

A thousand active hands, combined 

For mutual aid, with zealous heart, 
In well-apportioned labor find 

Their power increasing with their art. 



358 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Master and workmen all agree, 

Under sweet Freedom's holy care, 
And each, content in his degree, 

Warns every scorner to beware. 
Labor is the poor man's pride — 

Success by toil alone is won. 
Kings glory in possessions wide — 

We glory in onr work well done. 

Gentle peace ! 
Sweet union ! 
Linger, linger, 
Kindly over this our home ! 
Never may the day appear, 
When the hordes of cruel war 
Through this quiet vale shall rush ; 

When the sky, 
With the evening's softened air, 

Blushing red, 
Shall reflect the frightful glare 
Of burning towns in ruin dread. 

Wow break up the useless mould : 

Its only purpose is fulfilled. 
May our eyes, well pleased, behold 
A work to prove us not unskilled. 
Wield the hammer, wield, 
Till the frame shall yield ! 
That the bell to light may rise, 
The form in thousand fragments flies. 

The master may destroy the mould 

With careful hand, and judgment wise. 
But, woe ! — in streams of fire, if rolled, 

The glowing metal seek the skies ! 
Loud bursting with the crash of thunder, 

It throws aloft the broken ground ; 
Like a volcano rends asunder, 

And spreads in burning ruin round. 
When reckless power by force prevails, 

The reign of peace and art is o'er ; 
And when a mob e'en wrong assails, 

The public welfare is no more. 

Alas ! when in the peaceful state 

Conspiracies are darkly forming ; 
The oppressed no longer patient wait ; 

With fury every breast is storming. 
Then whirls the bell with frequent clang ; 

And uproar, with her howling voice, 
Has changed the note, that peaceful rang, 

To wild confusion's dreadful noise. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



359 



Freedom and equal rights they call — 

And peace gives way to sudden war ; 
The street is crowded, and the hall — 

And crime is unrestrained by law : 
E'en woman, to a fury turning, 

But mocks at every dreadful deed ; 
Against the hated madly burning, 

With horrid joy she sees them bleed. 
Now naught is sacred ; broken lies 

Each holy law of honest worth ; 
The bad man rules, the good man flies, 

And every vice walks boldly forth. 

There's danger in the lion's wrath, 

Destruction in the tiger's jaw ; 
But worse than death to cross the path 

Of man, when passion is his law. 
"Woe, woe to those who strive to light 

The torch of truth by passion's fire ! 
It guides not ; it but glares through night 

To kindle freedom's funeral pyre. 

God has given us joy to-night ! 

See how, like the golden grain 
From the husk, all smooth and bright, 
The shining metal now is ta'en ! 
From top to well formed rim, 
Not a spot is dim ; 
E'en the motto, neatly raised, 
Shows a skill may well be praised. 

Around, around, 
Companions all, take your ground, 
And name the bell with joy profound ! 
Concordia is the word we've found 
Most meet to express the harmonious sound, 
That calls to those in friendship bound. 



Be this henceforth the destined end 
To which the finished work we send 
High over every meaner thing, 

In the blue canopy of heaven, 
Near to the thunder let it swing, 

A neighbor to the stars be given. 
Let its clear voice above proclaim, 

With brightest troops of distant suns, 
The praise of our Creator's name, 

While round each circling season runs. 
To solemn thoughts of heartfelt power 

Let its deep note full oft invite, 
And tell, with every passing hour, 

Of hastening time's unceasing flight. 



360 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Still let it mark the course of fate ; 

Its cold unsympathizing voice 
Attend on every changing state 

Of human passions, griefs, and joys. 
And as the mighty sound it gives 

Dies gently on the listening ear, 
We feel how quickly all that lives 

Must change, and fade, and disappear. 

Now, lads, join your strength around ! 

Lift the Tbell to upper air ! 
And in the kingdom wide of sound 
Once placed, we'll leave it there. 
All together ! heave ! 
Its birthplace see it leave ! — 
Joy to all within its bound ! 
Peace its first, its latest sound ! 



Our Domestic Resources— h. Clat. 

Such is the extent and variegations of our territory — such the 
cheapness and generosity of the soil — such the facility with 
which sites for manufacturing buildings can be obtained, and 
such the aid which those sites would receive from the extensive 
application of steam — such the low prices of living in those 
places where manufactories will eventually rise, and the conse- 
quent moderate terms on which labor could be afforded — such 
the increasing economy with which tuition is brought to the 
doors of our citizens — so sinuous and diversified their enterprise 
— so high the inducement for the manufacturing species of emi- 
gration—and so little the necessity of affecting health, as in 
England and the European continent, by crowding numbers 
together — and withal, so free and equal our laws — that the 
society cannot but believe, that the visions of the theorists, and, 
what is more to be feared, the insinuations of the interested and 
designing on the points of. practicability, morals, and health, may 
be made to fall before the more rational and patriotic spirit of 
manufacture. * * * As to the owners of the establish- 
ments, it can never be feared, in a country like ours, where agri- 
culture must for ages be so decisively predominant, and where 
commerce and the mechanic interests would so equably keep 
them in check, that they would ever become, by overweening 
influence, obnoxious to our free institutions. But perhaps the 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 361 

contrary would result, from the strong necessity, which for cen- 
turies will exist, of, in some slight degree, counterpoising the 
colossal weight of the agricultural influence, by counteractive 
interests. 

* * * * * * * & 

To divide and conquer, is the maxim of our constitutional 
enemy. The encouragement of our domestic resources will 
make us a united people. This nation will become one great 
family, giving and taking from each other. Let us, then, 
treasure up the maxim of wisdom, that concert is stronger than 
members. 



The Fallen Leaves,— Mrs: Norton. 

We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children at our play, 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way: 
Eight merrily we hunt them down, 

The autumn winds and we, 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie, 

Or sunbeams gild the tree : 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where withered boughs are strown ; 
Nor past nor future checks our song — 

The present is our own. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When hope (who wearies at the last) 

First spreads her eagle wing. 
We tread with steps of conscious strength 

Beneath the leafless trees, 
And the color kindles in our cheek 

As blows the winter breeze ; 
While, gazing towards the cold gray sky, 

Clouded with snow and rain, 
We wish the old year all past bj, 

And the young spring come again. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 
In manhood's haughty prime — 

When first our pausing hearts begin 
To love " the olden time f 
16 



362 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

And, as we gaze, we sigh to think 

How many a year hath passed 
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees 

Our footsteps wandered last ; 
And old companions — now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead- 
Come round us, as those autumn leaves 

Are crushed beneath our tread. 

"We stand among the fallen leaves 

In our own autumn day— 
And, tottering on with feeble steps, 

Pursue our cheeiless way. 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost ; 
Nor forward — for we may not live 

To see our new hope crossed : 
But on we go — the sun's faint beam 

A feeble warmth imparts — 
Childhood without its joy returns— 

The present fills our hearts ! 



Fancy.— Keats. 

Ever let the fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home ; 

At a touch sweet pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged fancy wander 

Through the thoughts still spread beyond her; 

Open wide the mind's cage-door,. 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the spring 

Fades as does its "blossoming ; 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting : what do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughTboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the night doth meet the moon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish even from her sky. 



FANCY. 363 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 

With a mind self-overawed, 

Fancy, high-commissioned ; — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her ; 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, altogether, 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped autumn's wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it : thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear ; 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meager from its celled sleep ; 

And the snake all winter thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn tree, 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest ; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering, 

While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ! where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary ?■ where's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear bo very oft ? 



364 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

At a touch sweet pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth, 
Let, then, winged Eancy rind 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
Ere the god of torment taugh her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down . 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. Break the mesh 
Of the fancy's silken leash ; 
Quickly break her prison-string, 
And such joys as these she'll bring. 
Let the winged fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 



A Rill from the Town Pump,— Hawthorne. 

Noon, by the north clock ! Noon, by the east ! High, noon, 
too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon 
my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke, in the 
trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a 
tough time of it ! And, among all the town officers, chosen at 
March meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year, the 
burden of such manifold duties as are imposed, in perpetuity, 
upon the Town Pump ? • The title of " town treasurer" is right- 
fully mine, as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. 
The overseers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, 
since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense 
to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire depart- 
ment, and one of the physicians to the board of health. As a 
keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to 
the constable. I perform some of the duties of the town-clerk, 
by promulgating public notices, when they are posted on my 
front. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the 
municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to 
my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, downright, 
and impartial discharge of my business, and the constancy with 
which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks 
me in vain ; for, all day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP, 365 

just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor 
alike ; and at night I hold a lantern over my head, both to 
show where I am, and keep people out of the gutters. 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched pop- 
ulace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. 
Like a dramseller on the mall, at muster-day, I cry aloud to all 
and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of 
my voice. Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! 
Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up I ' Here is the 
superior stuff ! Here is the unadulterated ale of father Adam — - 
better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of 
any price ; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and 
not a cent to pay! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help 
yourselves ! 

It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no customers. 
Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen ! Quaff, and away 
again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat. You, my 
friend, will need another cup -full, to wash the dust out of your 
throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cow-hide shoes. I 
see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day ; and, like 
a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the run- 
ning brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without 
and fire within, )^ou would have been burnt to a cinder, or 
melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, 
and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench 
the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from 
no cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I 
have been great strangers, hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, 
will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of 
your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the 
water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is con- 
verted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet, which you mis- 
take for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an 
honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a 
dram-shop, spend the price of your children's food, for a swig 
half so delicious ? Now, for the first time these ten years, you 
know the flavor of cold water. Good-by ; and, whenever you 
are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply, at the old 
stand. Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose 
from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and 
drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other 
school-boy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take 
it, pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may 
your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst 



366 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

than now ! There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield 
your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly 
over the paving-stones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking 
them. What ! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, 
as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have 
no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir — no harm done, I hope ! Go, 
draw the cork, tip the decanter ; but, when your great toe shall 
set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen 
love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town 
Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does 
not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps 
eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away 
again ! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout ? 

Are you all satisfied ! Then wipe your mouths, my good 
friends; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will de- 
light the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far an- 
tiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a 
spring bubbled out of the leaf-strown earth, in the very spot 
where you now behold me, on the sunny pavement. The water 
was as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid dia- 
monds. The Indian sagamores drank of it> from time immemo- 
rial, till the fatal deluge of the fire-water burst upon the red 
men, and swept their whole race away from the cold fountains. 
Endicott, and his followers, came next, and often knelt down to 
drink, dipping their long beards in the spring., The richest 
goblet, then, was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop, after a 
journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of the hollow of his 
hand. The elder Higginson here wet his palm, and laid it on 
the brow of the first town-born child. For many years it was 
the watering-place, and, as it were, the wash-bowl of the vicin- 
ity — whither all decent folks resorted, to purify their visages, 
and gaze at them afterwards — at least the pretty maidens did — 
in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath-days, whenever a 
babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here, and 
placed it on the communion-table of the humble meeting-house, 
which partly covered the site of yonder stately brick one. 
Thus, one generation after another was consecrated to Heaven 
by its waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into 
its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life 
were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, the fountain 
vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart-loads of 
gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid stream, 
forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets. In the hot 
months, when its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 3$7 

in clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now their 
grave. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump was sunk 
into the source of the ancient spring ; and when the first decay- 
ed, another took its place — and then another, and still another 
— till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my 
iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed ! The water is pure and 
cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore, be- 
neath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness 
is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but 
from the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, 
that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and 
prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued 
since your fathers' days, be recognized by all. 

Your pardon, good people ! I must interrupt my stream of 
eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to replenish the 
trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have 
come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part 
of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look ! 
how rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the 
trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gal- 
lon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in, 
with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes 
around the brim of their monstrous drinking-vessels. An ox is 
your true toper. 

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for 
the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no 
defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic 
as my own multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. 
The better you think of me, the better men and women will you 
find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on 
washing days ; though, on that account alone, I might call my- 
self the household god of a hundred families. Far be it from 
me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty 
faces, which you would present, without my pains to keep you 
clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight 
bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have 
fled to the Town Pump, and found me always at my post, firm, 
amid the confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your 
behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my 
claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose simple rule 
of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found 
men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us 
take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. 

No ; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise 



368 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

men concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as the repre- 
sentative of a class — of being the grand reformer of the age. 
From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream, 
that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and 
anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. 
In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great confed- 
erate. Milk and water ! The Town Pump and the Cow ! 
Such is the glorious copartnership, that shall tear down the dis- 
tilleries and brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider- 
presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolize 
the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation ! 
Then, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel 
so wretched, where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then 
Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and 
die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. 
Until now, the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the hu- 
man blood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in every 
generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that 
inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but 
grow cool, and war — the drunkenness of nations — perhaps will 
cease. At least, there will be no war of households. The hus- 
band and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy — a calm bliss of 
temperate affections — shall pass hand in hand through life, and 
lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them, the 
past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eter- 
nity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. 
Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are 
to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope. 

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an un- 
practised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the 
temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they 
shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Chris- 
tian, pump a stroke or two, just to whet my whistle. Thank 
you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been 
regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless 
vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire, in 
honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall have decayed, 
like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a mar- 
ble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. 
Such monuments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed 
with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. 
Now listen ; for something very important is to come next. 

There are two or three honest friends of mine — and true 
friends, I know, they are — who, nevertheless, by their fiery pug- 



RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 369 

nacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard of a broken 
nose, or even a total overthrow upon the pavement, and the loss 
of the treasure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this 
fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with 
zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause of the 
Town Pump, in the style of a toper, righting for his brandy bot- 
tle ? Or, can the excellent qualities of cold water be no other- 
wise exemplified, than by plunging; slapdash into hot water, and 
wofully scalding yourselves and other people ? Trust me, they 
may. In the moral warfare, which you are to wage — and, in- 
deed, in the whole conduct of your lives — you cannot choose a 
better example than myself, who have never permitted the dust 
and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold disquietudes 
of the world around me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, 
which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that 
soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or cleanse its stains. 

One o'clock ! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I 
may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl 
of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. 
May she draw a husband, while drawing her water, as Rachel 
did of old. Hold out your vessel, my dear ! There it is, full 
to the brim ; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in 
the pitcher, as you go ; and forget not, in a glass of my own 
liquor, to drink — " Success to the Town Pump !" 



Rienzi's Address to the Romans.— Miss Mitford. 

Friends, 
I come not here to talk. Ye know too well 
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave. Wot such as swept along 
By the full tide of power the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and undying fame — 
But base ignoble slaves, slaves to a horde 
Of petty despots, feudal tyrants : lords 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages, 
Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great 
In that strange spell, a name. Each hour dark fraud 
Or open rapine, or protected murder* 
Cry out against them. But this very day 
An honest man, my neighbor — there he stands— 
16* 



370 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini, because, forsooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 
At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood \ Such shames are common ; 
I have known deeper wrongs — I that speak to ye, 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, 
Of sweet and quiet joy. Oh, how I loved 
That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years. 
Brother at once and son ! He left my side ; 
A summer-bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile 
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 
The pretty harmless boy was slain! I saw 
His corse, his mangled corse ; and when I cried 
For vengeance — Rouse ye, Eomans ! rouse ye, slaves ! 
Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look 
Ye to see them live, torn from your arms ; distained, 
Dishonored; and if ye dare to call for justice, 
Be answered with — the lash ! Yet this is Rome, 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world ! And we are Romans ! 
Why in that elder day to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king ! And once again — 
Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus ! Once again, I swear, 
The eternal city shall be free ! Her sons 
Shall walk with princes ! 



Address to Poets.— Keble. 

Ye whose hearts are beating high 
With the pulse of poesy, 
Heirs of more than royal race, 
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace, 
God's o^n work to do on earth, 

(If the word be not too bold,) 
Giving virtue a new birth, 

And a life that ne'er grows old— 

Sovereign masters of all hearts ! 
Know ye who hath set your parts ? 
He, who gave you breath to sing, 
By whose strength ye sweep the string, 



THE LAST MAN. 3^1 

He hath chosen you to lead 

His hosannas here below ; 
Mount, and claim your glorious meed ; 

Linger not with sin and woe. 

But if ye should hold your peace, 
Deem not that the song would cease- 
Angels round His glory -throne, 
Stars, his guiding hand that own, 
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, 

Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest 
High and low in choir shall meet. 

Ere his name shall be unblest. 

Lord, by every minstrel tongue 
Be thy praise so duly sung 
That thine angels' harps may ne'er 
Fail to find fit echoing here ! 
We, the while, of meaner birth, 

Who in that divinest spell 
Dare not hope to join on earth, 

Give us grace to listen weli 

But should thankless silence seal 
Lips that might half heaven reveal — -■ 
Should bards in idol-hymns profane 
The sacred soul-enthralling strain, 
(As in this bad world below 

"Noblest things find vilest using,) 
Then, thy power and mercy show, 

In vile things noble breath infusing. 

Then waken into sound divine 
The very pavement of thy shrine, 
Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor. 
Faintly give back what we adore. 
Childlike though the voices be, 

And untunable the parts, 
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy, 

If it flow from childlike hearts. 



The Last Man,— Campbell- 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 



372 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST, 

Adown the gulf of Time r 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime. 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare ; 

The earth with age was wan ; 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man, 
Some had expired in fight— the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands ; 

In plague and famine some. 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb. 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sub, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, floods, and earth, 

The vassals of his Will ; 
Yet mourn not I thy parted sway, 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Healed not a passion or a pang 

Entailed on human hearts. 

I 

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 

Life's tragedy again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh upon the rack - 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
Or mown in battle by the sword. 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sunless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 



THE PROTECTIVE POLICY. 373 

My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt no4 boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall — 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Eeceive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

That gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robbed the grave of victory — 

And took the sting from death ! 

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell that night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



The Protective Policy.— H. Clay. 

Who that has a heart, or tlie sympathies of a man, can say 
or feel that our hatters, tailors, and shoemakers, should not be 
protected against the rival productions of other countries ? Who 
would say that the shoemaker, who makes the shoes Of his 
wife — his own wife, according to the proverb, being the last 
woman in the parish that is supplied with hers — shall not be 
protected ? that the tailor, who furnishes him with a new coat, 
or the hatter, that makes him a new hat, to go to church, to at- 
tend a wedding or christening, or to visit his neighbor, shall not 
be adequately protected ? 

Then there is the essential article of iron — that is a great cen- 
tral interest. Whether it will require a higher degree of pro- 
tection than it will derive from such a system as I have sketch- 
ed, I have not sufficient information to decide; but this I am 
prepared to say, that question will be with the representatives 



3*74 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

of those states which are chiefly interested ; and, if their iron is 
not sufficiently protected, they must take the matter up and 
make out their case to be an exception to the general arrange- 
ment. * * * 

With me, from the first moment I conceived the idea of cre- 
ating, at home, a protection for the production of whatever is 
needed to supply the wants of man, down to this moment, it 
has always been purely a question of expediency. I never could 
comprehend the constitutional objection which to some gentle- 
men seems so extremely obvious. I could comprehend, to be 
sure!, what these gentlemen mean to argue, but I never had the 
least belief in the constitutional objection which slept from 1788 
(or, rather, which reverses the doctrine of 1780) till it suddenly 
waked up in 1820. Then, for the first time since the existence 
of the constitution, was the doctrine advanced that we could 
not legitimately afford any protection to our own home industry 
against foreign and adverse industry. I say, that with me it 
always was a question of expediency only. If the nation does 
not want protection, I certainly never would vote to force it 
upon the nation ; but viewing it as a question of expediency 
wholly, I have not hesitated heretofore, on the broad and com- 
prehensive ground of expediency, to give my assent to all suit- 
able measures proposed with a view to that end. 

I have persuaded myself that the system now brought for- 
ward will be met in a spirit of candor and of patriotism, and in 
the hope that whatever may have been the differences in the 
Senate in days past, we have now reached a period in which we 
forget our prejudices, and agree to bury our transient animosi- 
ties deep at the foot of the altar of our common country, and 
come together as an assemblage of friends, and brothers, and 
compatriots, met in common consultation to devise the best 
mode of relieving the public distress. It is in this spirit that I 
have brought forward my proposed plan ; and I trust in God, 
invoking as I humbly do the aid and blessing of his providence, 
that the Senators, on all sides of the chamber, will lay aside all 
party feelings, and more especially that habitual suspicion to 
which we are all more or less prone, (and from which I profess 
not to be exempted more than other men,) that impels us to re- 
ject, without examination, and to distrust whatever proceeds 
from a quarter we have been in the habit of opposing. Let us 
lay aside prejudice ; let us look at the distresses of our country, 
and these alone. I trust that in this spirit we shall examine 
these resolutions, and decide upon them according to the dic- 
tates of our own consciences, and in a pure and patriotic regard 
to the welfare of our countrv- 



MR, PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 3 75 

Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemmd.— Dickers. 

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell street, although on a 
limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable de- 
scription, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of 
his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor 
front, his bed-room the second floor front ; and thus, whether 
he were sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the 
dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of 
contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhib- 
its, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His 
landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix of a de- 
ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of bustling 
manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for 
cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite 
talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The 
only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small 
boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bar- 
dell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten 
o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself 
into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back par- 
lor ; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master 
Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements 
and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the 
house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic 
economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admira- 
ble regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and be- 
havior on the morning previous to that which had been fixed 
upon for the journey to Eatanswill, would have been most mys- 
terious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with 
hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals 
of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, 
and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very un- 
usual with him. It was evident that something of great import- 
ance was in contemplation, but what that something was, not 
even Mrs. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover. 

41 Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable 
female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the 
apartment. ^ 

" Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. 
"Your little boy is a very long time gone." 
"Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remon- 
strated Mrs. Bardell, 



376 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

" Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, i* very true ; so it is." 

Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed 
her dusting. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few 
minutes. 

"■Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. 

"Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two peo- 
ple, than to keep one ?" 

" La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the 
very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of 
matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pick- 
wick, what a question !" 

"Well, but do you ?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

" That depends": — said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster 
very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the 
table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, 
Mr. Pickwick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, 
sir." 

" That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick, " but the person I 
have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I 
think possesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considera- 
ble knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. 
Bardell ; which may be of material use to me." 

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell ; the crimson rising to 
her cap -border again. 

" I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his 
wont in speaking of a subject which interested him. " I do, 
indeed ; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made 
up my mind." 

" Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. 

" You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. 
PickAvick, with a good-humored glance at his companion, " that 
I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned 
it, till I sent your little boy out this morning — eh ?" 

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long 
worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all. at 
once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extrav- 
agant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was 
going to propose — a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy to 
the Borough, to get him out of the way — how thoughtful — how 
considerate ! 

" Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you think ?" 

" Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agita- 
tion, " you're very kind, sir." 



MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 377 

"It'll save you a good deal of trouble, wont it?" said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

" Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir," replied 
Mrs. Bardell ; " and, of course, I should take more trouble to 
please you then than ever : but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pick- 
wick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness." 

" Ah, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick ; " I never thought of 
that. When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit 
with you. To be sure, so you will." 

" I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. 
Bardell. 

" And your little boy" — said Mr. Pickwick. 

"Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a mater- 
nal sob. 

" He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, 
" a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a 
week, than he would ever learn in a year." And Mr. Pickwick 
smiled placidly. 

" Oh you dear" — said Mrs. Bardell. 

Mr. Pickwick started. 

" Oh you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell ; and 
without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms 
round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears, and a cho- 
rus of sobs. 

" Bless my soul," cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick ; " Mrs. 
Bardell, my good woman — dear me, what a situation — pray 
consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if any body should come" — 

" Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically ; 
" I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good soul ;" and, with these 
words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. 

"Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, 
" I hear somebody coming up the stairs. . Don't, don't, there's a 
good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were 
alike unavailing ; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's 
arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, 
Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tup man, Mr. 
Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. 

Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He 
stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the 
countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at re- 
cognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him ; 
and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at every body. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and 
the perplexity of Mr.. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might 



378 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

have remained in exactly the same relative situations until the 
suspended animation of the lady was restored,, had it not been 
for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affec- 
tion on .the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of 
corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable 
size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; but 
by degrees the impression that his mother must have suffered 
some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, 
and considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an ap- 
palling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward 
with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman 
about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the 
strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement, allowed. 

"Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pick- 
wick ; " he's mad." 

" What is the matter ?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- 
wickians. 

" I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take 
away the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, 
screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) 
Now help me to lead this woman down stairs." 

" Oh, I am better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. 

"Let me lead you downstairs," said the ever-gallant Mr. 
Tupman. 

" Thank you, sir — thank you," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hys- 
terically. And down stairs she was led accordingly, accompa- 
nied by her affectionate son. 

" I cannot conceive" — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend 
returned — " I cannot conceive what has been the matter with 
that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of 
keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary 
paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing." 

" Very," said his three friends. 

" Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," con- 
tinued Mr. Pickwick. 

" Very," was the reply of his followers, as they coughed 
slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. 

This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked 
their incredulity. They evidently suspecte'd him. 

" There is a man in the passage, now," said Mr. Tupman. 

" It's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick. 
" I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the good- 
ness to call him up, Snod grass." 

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired ; and Mr. Samuel Wel- 
ler forthwith presented himself. 



DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. 



Students will find the practice of reading " Dramatic Dialogues" of 
invaluable assistance in the acquirement of correct elocutionary ex- 
pression. 

The effort the mind involuntarily makes, in these exercises, to em- 
body the various characters represented, induces a natural mode of de- 
livery, no less essential to the public speaker, than it is to the pri- 
vate reader. 

The vocal organs are also trained by this practice. Flexibility of 
voice, variety of modulation, and rapid transition of tones, are all 
developed and perfected by practising such examples. 



Brutus and Cassias, on the Conspiracy against 

CcBSar. — Shakspeare. 
Brutus — Cassius. 

Cos. Will you go see the order of the course ? 

Bru. Not I. 

Oas. I pray you do. 

Bru. I am not gamesome : I do lack some part 
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ; 
I'll leave you. 

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late : 
I have not from your eyes that gentleness, 
And show of love, as I was wont to have : 
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand 
Over your friend that loves you. 

Bru. Cassius, 
Be not deceived : if I have veiled my look, 
I turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am, 
Of late, with passions of some difference, 



380 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Conceptions only proper to myself, 

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors : 

But let not therefore my good friends be grieved ; 

(Among which number, Cassius, be you one ;) 

Nor construe any further my neglect, 

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, 

Forgets the shows of love to other men. 

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion, 
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried - 
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations., 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. No, Cassius ; for the eye sees not itself, 
But by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. 'Tis just: 
And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 
That you have no such mirrors, as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 
That you might see your shadow. I have heard, 
Where many of the best respect in Rome, 
(Except immortal Caesar,) speaking of Brutus, 
And groaning underneath this age's yoke, 
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes. 

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, 
That you would have me seek into myself 
For that which is not in me ? 

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear ; 
And, since you know you cannot see yourself 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 
Will modestly discover to yourself 
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus : 
Were I a common laugher, or did use 
To stale with ordinary oaths my love 
To every new protester : if you know 
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard 
And after scandal them ; or if you know 
That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. 

[Flourish and shout. 

Bru. What means this shouting ? I do fear, the people 
Choose Caesar' for their king. 

Cas. Ay, do you fear it ? 
Then must I think you would not have it so. 

Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well : 



THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST CAESAR, 381 

But wherefore do you hold me here so long? 
What is it that you would impart to me ? 
If it be aught toward the general good, 
Set honor in one eye, and death i' the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently : 
For, let the gods so speed me, as I love 
The name of honor more than I fear death. 

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
As well as I do know your outward favor. 
Well, honor is the subject of my story. 
I cannot tell, what you and other men 
Think of this life : but, for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 
Caesar said to me, Darst thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point ? Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 
The torrent roared : and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside 
And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 
But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
Caesar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. 
I, as ^Eneas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber 
Did I the tired Caesar : And this man 
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
And, when the fit was on hira, I did mark 
How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake : 
His coward lips did from their color fly ; 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 
Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : 
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 



382 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Alas ! it cried, Give me some drink, Titinius, 
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. 

[Shout. Flourish. 

Bru. Another general shout ! 
I do believe, that these applauses are 
For some new honors that are heaped on Caesar. 

Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 
Men at some times are masters of their fates ; 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus, and Caesar : What should be in that Caesar ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure them, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. [Shout. 

Now in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art shamed : 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was famed with more than with one man ? 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walks encompassed but one man ? 
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, 
When there is in it but one only man. 

! you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked 
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ;j 
What you would work me to, I have some aim ; 
How I have thought of this, and of these times, 

1 shall recount hereafter ; for this present, 

I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further moved. What you have said, 
I will consider ; what you have to say, 
I will with patience hear : and find a time 



THE DEATH OF ION. 383 

Both meet to hear, and answer, such high things, 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this ; 
Brutus had rather be a villager, 
Than to repute himself a son of Rome 
Under these hard conditions as this time 
Is like to lay upon us. 

Cas. I am glad, that my weak words 
Have struck but this much show of fire from Brutus, 



The Death of Ion.— Talfourd. 

The Oracle at Delphi had announced that the vengeance which the 
misrule of the race of Argos had brought on the people, in the form of a 
pestilence, could only be disarmed by the extirpation of the guilty race, 
and Ion, (son of Adrastus, late King of Argos,) on assuming the crown, 
resolves to sacrifice himself to save his country. Ion is installed in his 
royal dignity, attended by the High Priests, and Senators, &c. The people 
receive him with shouts. 

Ion— Medon — Agenor — Crythes — Irtjs. 

Ion. I thank you for your greetings — shout no more, 
But in deep silence raise your hearts to heaven, 
That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
As I am for the business of this hour. 
Must I sit here ? 

Medon. My son ! my son ! 
What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
Marbles thy face. 

Ion. Am I indeed so pale ! 
It is a solem office I assume, 
Which well may make me falter ; yet sustained 
By thee and by the gods I serve, I take it. 

[Sits on the Throne, 
Stand forth, Agenor. 

Agenor. I await thy will. • 

Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend 
Of this afflicted people ; thou must leave 
Awhile the quiet which thy life has earned 
To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 
With good men, not so absolute in justice 



3S4 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

As to forget what human frailty is; 
And order my sad country. 

Agenor. Pardon me — 

Ion. Niay, I will promise 'tis my last request; 
Grant me thy help till this distracted state 
Rise tranquil from her griefs — 'twill not be long, 
If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, 
Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, 
Whether I live or die. 

Agenor. Die ! Ere that hour, 
May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown ! 

Ion. Death is not jealous of the mild decay 
That gently wins thee his ; exulting youth 
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
His prey benumbed at noontide. Let me see 
The captain of the guard. 

Crythes. I kneel to crave 
Humbly the favor which thy sire bestowed 
On one who loved him well. 

Ion. I cannot mark thee, 
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness, 
But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 
And learned the need of luxury. I grant 
For thee and thy -brave comrades ample share 
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain, 
To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
May glorious issues wait it. In our realm 
We shall not need it longer. 

Crythes. Dost intend 
To banish the firm troops before whose valor 
Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave 
Our city naked to the first assault 
Of reckless foes ? 

Ion. No, Crythes; in ourselves, 
In our honest hearts and chainless hands 
-Will be our safeguard ; while we do not use 
Our power towards others, so that we should blush 
To teach our children ; while the simple love 
Of justice and their country shall be born 
With dawning reason ; while their sinews grow 
Hard 'midst the gladness of heroic sports, 



THE DEATH OF ION. 355 

We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace, 
One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
I would not grieve thee ; but thy valiant troop — 
For I esteem them valiant — must no more 
With luxury which suits a desperate camp 
Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
Ere night. 

Crythes. My lord — 

Ion. No more — my word hath passed. 
Medon, there is no office I can add 
To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
As thou didst me ; there sometimes waste a thought 
On thy spoiled inmate. 

Medon. Think of thee, my lord ? 
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign. 

Ion. Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon 
To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin 
In death the father from whose heart in life 
Stern fate divided me, think gently of him ! 
Think that beneath his panoply of pride 
Were fair affections crushed by bitter wrongs 
Which fretted him to madness ; what he did, 
Alas ! ye know ; could you know what he suffered, 
Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more 
Let the great interests of the state depend 
Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
A piece of human frailty; swear to me - 

That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves 
The means of sovereignty ; our country's space. 
So happy in its smaliness, so compaet, 
Needs not the ma^ic of a single name 
Which wider regions may require to draw 
Their interest into one ; but, circled thus, 
Like a blest family, by simple laws 
May tenderly be governed — all degrees, 
Not placed in dextrous balance, not combined 
By bonds of parehment, or by iron clasps, 
But blended into one — a single form 
Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest cords 
Of sympathy pervading, shall endow 
With vital beauty ; tint with roseate bloom 
In times of happy peace, and bid to flash 
17 



386 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands 

Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 

That ye will do this ! 

Medon. Wherefore ask this now ? 
Thou shalt live long ; the paleness of thy face, 
Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now, 
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
Of glorious years. 

Ion. The gods approve me then ! 
Yet I will use the function of a king, 
And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die 
And leave no issue, ye will seek the power 
To govern in the free-born people's choice, 
And in the prudence of the wise. 

Medon and others. We swear it ! 

Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers I 
Now give me leave a moment to approach 
That altar unattended. 

[He goes to the altar. 
Gracious gods ! 
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, 
Look on me now ; and if there is a power, 
As at this solemn time I feel there is, 
Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
The spirit of the beautiful that lives 
In earth and heaven ; to ye I offer up 
This conscious being, full of life and love, 
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
End all her sorrows ! 

[Stabs himself. 

Enter Irus. 

Irus. I bring you glorious tidings — 
Ha ! no joy 
Can enter here. 

Ion. Yes — is it as I hope ? 

Irus. The pestilence abates. 

Ion. [Springs to his feet.] Do ye not hear? 
Why shout ye not ? ye are strong — think not of me; 
Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread 
O'er Argos is dispelled ! 
The offering is accepted— all is well ! 

[Dies. 



SCENE FROM THE HONEY-MOOK 387 

Scene from the Honey-moon.— Tons. 

Duke Aranza — Count Montalban — Rolahdo. 

Eater Duke and Mont alb as, followed hy a servant, the Duke 
speaking to servant. 

This letter you will give my steward ; this 

To my old tenant, Lopez. Use dispatch, sir ; 

Your. negligence may ruin an affair 

Which I have much at heart. \Exit servant. 

Why how now, count ! 

You look but dull upon my wedding-day, 

Nor show the least reflection of that joy 

Which breaks from me, and should light up my friend. 

Count. If I could set my features to my tongue, 
I'd give your highness joy. Still, as a friend 
Whose expectation lags behind his hopes, 
I wish you happy. 

Duke. You shall see me so. 
Is not the lady I have chosen fair ? 

Count. Nay, she is beautiful. 

Duke. Of a right age ? 

Count. In the fresh prime of youth, and bloom of woman- 
hood. 

Duke. A well-proportioned form and noble presence ? 

Count. True. 

Duke. Then her wit ? her wit is admirable ! 

Count. There is a passing shrillness in her voice. 

Duke. Has she not wit ? 

Count. A sharp-edged tongue, I own ; 
But uses it as bravoes do their swords — 
Not for defense, but mischief. Then, her gentleness, 
You had almost forgot to speak of that. 

Duke. Ay, there you touch me ! yet, though she be prouder 
Than the vexed ocean at its topmost swell, 
And every breeze will chafe her to a storm, 
I love her still the better. Some prefer 
Smoothly o'er an unwrinkled sea to glide ; 
Others to ride the cloud-aspiring waves, 
And hear, amid the rending tackle's roar, 
The spirit of an equinoctial gale, 
What though a patient and enduring lover — 
Like a tame spaniel, that with crouching eye 



388 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Meets buffets and caresses — I have ta'en 
With humble thanks her kindness and her scorn ; 
Yet when I am her husband, she shall feel 
I was not born to be a woman's slave ! 
Can you be secret ? 

Count. You have found me so 
In matters of some moment. 

Duke. Listen, then : — 
I have prepared a penance for her pride, 
To which a cell and sackcloth, and the toils 
Of a barefooted pilgrimage, were pastime. 
As yet she knows me, as I truly am, 
The Duke Aranza : in which character 
I have fed high her proud, and soaring fancy 
With the description of my state and fortunes, 
My princely mansions, my delicious gardens, 
My carriages, my servants, and my pomp. 
Now mark the contrast. In the very height 
And fullest pride of her ambitious hopes, 
I take her to a miserable hut, 
All things are well digested for the purpose ; 
Where throwing off the title of a duke, 
I will appear to her a low-born peasant. 
There with coarse raiment, household drudgery, _- 
Laborious exercise, and cooling viands, 
I will so lower her distempered blood 
And tame the devil in her, that, before 
We have burnt out our happy honey-moon, 
She, like a well-trained hawk, shall at my whistle 
Quit her high nights, and perch upon my finger 
To wait my bidding. 

Count. Most excellent ! a plot of rare invention ! 

Duke. When with a bold hand I have weeded out 
The rank growth of her pride, she'll be a garden 
Lovely in blossom, rich in fruit ; till then, 
An unpruned wilderness. But to your business, 
How thrives your suit with her fair sister, count ? 

Count. The best advancement I can boast of in it 
Is, that it goes not backward. She's a riddle, 
Which he that solved the sphinx's would die guessing. 
If I but mention love, she starts away, 
And wards the subject off with so much skill, 
That whether she be hurt or tickled most 
Her looks leave doubtful. Yet I fondly think 



SCENE FROM THE HONEY-MOON. 389 

She keeps me, as the plover from her nest 
Fearful misleads the traveller, from the point 
Where live her warmest wishes, that are breathed 
For me in secret. 

Duke. You've her father's voice ? 

Count. Yes ; and we have concerted, that this evening, 
Instead of friar Dominic, her confessor, 
Who from his pious office is disabled 
By sudden sickness, I should visit her ; 
And, as her mind's physician, feel the pulse 
Of her affection. 

Duke. May you quickly find 
Her love to you the worst of her offenses, 
For then her absolution would be certain. 
Farewell ! I see Rolando. 
He is a common railer against women ; 
And on my wedding day I will hear none 
Blaspheme the sex. Besides, as once he failed 
In the same suit that I have thriven in, 
'Twill look like triumph. 'Tis a grievous pity 
He follows them with such a settled spleen, 
For he has noble qualities. 

Count. Most rare ones — 
A happy wit and independent spirit. 

Duke. And then he's brave too. 

Count. Of as tried a courage 
As ever walked up to the roaring throats 
Of a deep-ranged artillery ; and planted, 
'Midst fire and smoke, upon an enemy's wall, 
The standard of his country. 

Duke. Farewell, count. 

Count. Success attend your schemes ! 

Duke. Fortune crowns yours ! [Exit, 

Count and Rolando. 

Count. Signior Rolando, you seem melancholy. 

jRol. As an old cat in the mumps. I met three women, 
I marvel much they suffer them to walk 
Loose in the streets, whilst other untamed monsters 
Are kept in cages— three loud-talking women ! 
They were discoursing of the newest fashions, 
And their tongues went like — I have since been thinking 
What most that active member of a woman 
Of mortal things resembles. 



390 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Count. Have you found it ? 

Rol. Umph ! not exactly — something like a smoke-jack ; 
For it goes ever without winding up ; 
But that wears out in time— there fails the simile. 
Next I bethought me of a water-mill ; 
But that stands still on Sundays. And, besides, 
A mill, to give it motion, waits for grist ; 
Now, whether she has aught to say or no, 
A woman's tongue will go for exercise. 
In short, I came to this conclusion : 
Most earthly things have their similitudes, 
But woman's tongue is yet incomparable. 
Was't not the duke that left you ? 

Count. 'Twas. 

Rol. He saw me, 
And hurried off — a cur that has been caught 
Privately stealing in a butcher's shop, 
Ne'er sneaked away more scurvily. He knew 
I should have rated him. 

Count. Ay 'twas most wise in him 
To shun the bitter flowing of your gall. 
You know he's on the brink of matrimony. 

Rol. Why now, in reason what can he expect ? 
To marry such a woman ! 
A thing so closely packed with her own pride, 
She has no room for any thought of him. 
Why, she ne'er threw a word of kindness at him 
But when she quarrelled with her monkey. Then, 
As he with nightly minstrelsy doled out 
A lying ballad to her peerless beauty, 
Upon his whining lute, and at each turn 
Sighed like a paviour, the kind lady, sir, 
Would lift the casement up to laugh at him, 
And vanish like a shooting star ; whilst he, 
Like an astronomer in an eclipse, 
Stood gazing on the spot whence he departed : 
Then, stealing home, went supperless to bed, 
And fed all night upon her apparition. 
Now, rather than espouse a thing like this, 
I'd wed a bear that never learned to dance, 
Though her first hug were mortal. 

Count. Peace, Rolando ! 
You rail at women as priests cry down pleasure ; 
Who, for the penance which they do their tongues, 



SCENE FROM THE HONEY-MOON. 391 

Give ample license to their appetites. 

Come, come ; however you may mask your nature, 

I know the secret pulses of your heart 

Beat towards them still. A woman-hater ! pshaw ! 

A young and handsome fellow, and a brave one — 

Rol. Go on. 

Count. Had I a sister, mother, nay, my grandam, 
I'd no more trust her in a corner with thee, 
Than cream within the whiskers of a cat. 
J Rol. Right ! I should beat her. You are very right. 
I have a sneaking kindness for the sex ; 
And could I meet a reasonable woman, 
Fair without vanity, rich without pride, 
Discreet, though witty ; learned, yet very humble, 
That has no ear for flattery, no tongue 
For scandal ; one who never reads romances ; 
Who loves to listen better than to talk, 
And rather than be gadding would sit quiet ; 
Hates cards and cordials, goes ill drest to church ; . 
I'd marry certainty. You shall find two such, 
And we'll both wed together. 

Count. You are merry. 
When shall we dine together ? . - * ; . 

Rol. Not to-day. 

Count. Nay, I insist. • %,-• 

Rol. Where shall I meet you then ? " . *. ' 

Count. Here at the Mermaid. • 

Rol. I don't like the sign ; 
A mermaid is half woman. 

Count. Pshaw, Rolando ! 
You strain this humor beyond sense or measure. 

Rol. Well, on condition that we're very private, 
And that we drink no toast that's feminine, 
I'll waste some time with you. 

Count. Agreed. 

Rol. Go on, then. 
I will but give directions to my page, 
And follow you. 



392 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 



Hotspur and G/ewcfower.— Shakspeare. 

Glend. Sit, cousin Percy ; sit good cousin Hotspur : 
For by that name as oft as Lancaster 
Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale ; and, with . 
A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven. 

Hot. And you in hell, as often as he hears 
Owen Glendower spoke of. 

Glend. I cannot blame him : at my nativity, 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, 
Of burning cressets ; and at my birth, 
The frame and huge foundation of the earth 
Shaked like a coward. 

Hot. Why so it would have done 
At the same season, if your mother's cat had 
But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born. 

Glend. I say, the earth did shake when I was born. 

Hot. And I say, the earth was not of my mind, 
If you suppose, as fearing you it shook. 

Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble. 

Hot. 0, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, 
And not in fear of your nativity. 
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions : oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd 
Which, for enlargement striving, 
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down 
Steeples, and moss-grown towers. At your birth, 
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature, 
In passion shook. 

Glend. Cousin, of many men 
I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 
To tell you once again — that at my birth, 
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes ; 
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds 
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields. 
These signs have marked me extraordinary ; 
And all the courses of my life do show, 
I am not in the roll of common men. 
Where is he living — clipped in with the sea 
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales— 
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me ? 
And bring him out, that is but woman's son, 



SCENE FROM THE IRON CHEST. 393 

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art, 
And hold me pace in deep experiments. 

Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh — 
I will to dinner. 

Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 

Hot. Why, so can I ; or so can any man : 
But will they come, when you do call for them ? 

Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command 
The devil. 

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil, 
By telling truth ; tell truth, and shame the devil. 
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, 
And I'll be sworn, I have power to shame him hence. 
0, while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil. 



Scene from the Iron Chest,— Colman. 

Wilford — Sir Edward Mortimer. 

Wilf. I would Sir Edward were come ! the dread of a fear- 
ful encounter is, often, as terrible as the encounter itself. Yet 
my encounters with him of late, are no trifles. Some few hours 
back, in this very room, he held a loaded pistol within an inch 
of my brains. Well, that was passion; he threw it from him 
on the instant, and — eh ! he's coming — -no. The old wainscot 
cracks, and frightens me out of my wits ; and, I verily believe, 
the great folio dropt on my head, just now, from the shelf, on 
purpose to increase my terrors. 

Enter Sir Edward Mortimer at the door of the library, which 
he locks after him. Wilford turns round on hearing him 
shut it. 

Wilf What's that ? 'tis he himself ! mercy on me ! he has 
locked the door ! what is going to become of me ! 

Mort. Wilford ! is no one in the picture gallery ? 

Wilf No — not a soul, sir ; not a human soul ; 
None within hearing, if I were to bawl 
Ever so loud. 

Mort. Lock yonder door. 

Wilf The door, sir ! 
11* 



394 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Mort. Do as I bid you. 

Wilf. What, sir? lock — [Mortimer waves with his hand."] 
I shall, sir. [Going to the door, and locking it.] 

His face has little anger in it, neither : 
'Tis rather marked with sorrow and distress. 

Mort. Wilford approach me. What am I to say 
For aiming at your life ; do you not scorn me, 
Despise me for it ? 

Wilf. I ! oh, sir !. 

Mort. You must ; 
For I am singled from the herd of men, 
A vile, heart-broken wretch ! 

Wilf. Indeed, indeed, sir. 
You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love, 
The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude, 
All follow you : and I ! I owe you all ! 
I am most bound to bless you. 

Mort. Mark me, Wilford : 
I know the value of the orphan's tear ; 
The poor man's prayer ; respect from the respected ; 
I feel to merit these, and to obtain them, 
Is to taste here, below, that thrilling cordial 
Which the remunerating angel draws 
From the eternal fountain of delight, 
To pour on blessed souls, that enter heaven. 
I feel this : I ! how must my nature, then, 
Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand 
In human blood ? and yet it seems, this day 
I sought your life — oh ! I have suffered madness \ 
None know my tortures ; pangs ! but I can end them ; 
End them as far as appertains to thee. 
I have resolved it. Hell-born struggles tear me ! 
But I have pondered on't, and I must trust thee. 

Wilf. Your confidence shall not be — 

Mort. You must swear. 

Wilf. Swear, sir ! will nothing but an oath, then — 

Mort. Listen. 
May all the ills that wait on frail humanity 
Be doubled on your head, if you disclose 
My fatal secret ! may your body turn 
-Most lazar-like, and loathsome ; and your mind 
More loathsome than your body f may those fiends 
Who strangle babes, for very wantonness, 
Shrink back, and shudder at your monstrous crimes, 



SCENE FROM THE IRON CHEST*. 395 

And, shrinking, curse you ! palsies strike your youth ! 
And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind 
Poison your aged days ; while all your nights, 
As on the earth you lay your houseless head, 
Out- horror horror ! may you quit the world 
Abhorred, self-hated, hopeless for the next, 
Your life a burthen and your death a fear ! 

Wilf For mercy's sake, forbear ! you terrify me ! 
Mort. Hope this may fall upon thee ; swear thou hopest it. 
By every attribute which heaven, earth, hell, 
Can lend, to bind and strengthen conjuration, 
If thou betray 'st me. 

Wilf. Well I— - [Hesitating.] 

Mort. JSTo retreating! 
Wilf. (after a pause) 
I swear, by all the ties that bind a man, 
Divine or human, never to divulge ! 

Mort. Remember you have sought this secret. : yes, 
Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you. 
'Tis big with danger to you ; and to me, 
While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable, 
Know, Wilford, that, damnation ! 

Wilf Dearest sir ! 
Collect yourself. This shakes } t ou horribly. 
You had this trembling, it is scarce a week, 
At Madam Helen's. 

Mort. There it is. Her uncle — , ' 

Wilf Her uncle ! 

Mort. Him. She knows it not ; none know it ; 
You are the first ordained to hear me say, 

I am his murderer. 

Wilf O, heaven ! 
Mort. His assassin. 

Wilf. What you that — mur — the murder— I am choked ! 
Mort. Honor, thou blood-stained god ! at whose red altar 
Sit war and homicide, 0, to what madness 
Will insult drive thy votaries ! by heaven ! 
In the world's range there does not breathe a man 
Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe, 
With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, 
Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me, 
Stained me, oh, death and shame ! the world looked on, 
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; 
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro, 



396 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST, 

On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation, 
In every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance ! 
I left the room, which he had quitted : chance/ 
Curse on the chance ! while boiling with my wrongs, 
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street : 
I stabbed him to the heart : and my oppressor 
Rolled, lifeless, at my foot. 

Wilf. Oh ! mercy on me t 
How could this deed be covered ? 

Mort. Would you think it ? 
E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, 
Butchered a fellow- creature in the dark, 
I had all good men's love. But my disgrace; 
And my opponent's death, thus linked with it, 
Demanded notice of the magistracy. 
They summoned me, as friend would summon friend^ 
To acts of import, and communication. 
We met : and 'twas resolved, to stifle ramoiv 
To put me on my trial. No accuser, 
No evidence appeared, to urge it on : 
'Twas meant to clear my fame. How clear it then ? 
How cover it ? you say. Why, hj a lie ; 
Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast, 
Which truth once made her throne, to forge a lie ; 
This tongue to utter it ; rounded a tale, 
Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth ; 
So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court 
Disturbed cool justice in her judgment-seat, 
By shouting " innocence !" ere I had finished. 
The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble 
Bore me, in triumph, home. Ay ! look upon me. 
I know thy sight aches at me. 

Wilf. Heaven forgive me ! 
I think I love you still : but I am young ; 
I know not what to say : it may be wrong ; 
Indeed I pity you. 

Mort. I disdain all pity. 
I ask no consolation. Idle boy ! 
Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence 
Was given to move thy pity ? love of fame, 
For still I cling to it, has urged me thus, 
To quash thy curious mischief in its birth. 
Hurt honor, in an evil, cursed hour, 
Drove me to murder ; lying : 'twould again. 



SCENE FROM THE IRON CHEST. 39*7 

My honesty, sweet peace of mind, all, all 

Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it. 

Should slander whisper o'er my sepulchre, 

And my soul's agency survive in death, 

I could embody it with heaven's lightning, 

And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit 

Should strike the blaster of my memory 

DeacJ, in the church-yard. Boy, I would not kill thee ; 

Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger ; 

To check them there was no way left but this, 

Save one — your death : you shall not be my victim. 

Wilf. My death ! what, take my life ? my life to prop 
This empty honor. 

Mart. Empty ? grovelling fool ! 

Wilf. I am your servant, sir ; child of your bounty, 
And know my obligation. I have been 
Too curious haply ; 'tis the fault of youth. 
I ne'er meant injury : if it would serve you, 
I would lay down my life ; I'd give it freely : 
Could you, then, have the heart to rob me of it ? 
You could not ; should not, 

Mort. How! 

Wilf. You dare not. 

Mort. Dare not ! 

Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved you ; 
Reflection interposed, and held your arm. 
But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it, 
My innocence would give me strength to struggle, 
And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand. 
How would you look. to find a peasant boy 
Return the knife you levelled at his heart ; 
And ask you which in heaven would show the best, 
A rich man's honor, or a poor man's honesty ? 

Mort 'Tis plain I dare not take your life. To spare it, 
I have endangered mine. But dread my power ; 
You know not its extent. Be warned in time ; 
Trifle not with my feelings. Listen, sir ! 
Myriads of engines, which my secret working 
Can rouse to action, now encircle you. 
Your ruin hangs upon a thread : provoke me, 
And it shall fall upon you. Dare to make 
The slightest movement to awake my fears, 
And the gaunt criminal, naked, and stake-tied, 
Left on the heath to blister in the sun, 



398 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Till lingering death shall end his agony, 
Compared to thee, shall seem more enviable 
Than cherubs to the damned. 

Wilf. 0, misery ! 
Discard me, sir ! I must be hateful to you. 
Banish me hence. I will be mute as death ; 
But let me quit your service. 

Mort. Never — fool ! 
To buy this secret, you have sold yourself. 
Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your breath, 
From this time forth, are fettered to -my 'will. 
You have said truly ; you are hateful to me — 
Yet you shall feel my bounty — that shall flow, 
And swell your fortunes. 



Scene from Old Heads and Young Hearts. 

borcioault. 
Littleton Coke — Lord Roebuck — Bob. 

Lit. Charles, my dear fellow. [Shaking his hand. 

Roe. The same as ever— I can almost believe myself at col- 
lege again — and Bob, too — 

Bob. Yes, my lord, promoted from gyp to lawyer's clerk. 

Roe. It seems but a month ago since I roasted you for court- 
ing my bed-maker — do you remember? 

Bob. Remember ! your lordship tied me along a form before I ] 
the fire, went out, and forgot me. 

Roe. You found that night's roasting a cure for love, eh ? 
Well, I'll remember you this time : there is a plaster for your \ 
[Gives him a note,] sore memory — vanish! f 

Bob. Never mind, you may want me again if you like. 1 

[Looks at money — exit. 

Lit. Why, your long residence in Paris has transmuted you 
from a model for young England, into the type of jeune France. 
Some time since we parted at Alma Mater. 

Roe, Three years ; I started immediately for Paris, where my 
brother was ambassador plenipotentiary ; my father wished me 
to graduate in diplomacy under his able surveillance. 






SCENE FROM OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS. 399 

Lit. And your respected sire, the Home Secretary ? 

Roe. I have not seen the Earl since my return. 

Lit. How? 

Roe. No ! To be candid with you, I'm in a scrape, so I natu- 
rally hastened to you. 

Lit. I have at your service a stock of advice, generously 
subscribed by my friends when I revealed to them the bottom 
of my purse — proceed. 

Roe. The most ancient of maladies. 

Lit. Oh, love? 

Roe. To distraction. 

Lit, How? vulgarly, with a woman — or fashionably, with 
yourself ? 

Roe. Listen and judge. Ten days ago, as in obedience to my 
father's mandate, I was on my route from Paris — my chariot 
was arrested on the Dover Road, by a spill, illustrated with 
oaths and screams. 

Lit. Heroics — by Jove ! 

Roe. Post-boy whipping — horses kicking — old gentleman 
cursing — young lady screaming and fainting alternately. 

Lit. Lucky dog ! 

Roe. I disengaged the senseless fair," threw off her bonnet, 
and unveiled a face — oh, Coke, such a face ! she gasped for 
breath. 

Lit. You lent her some of yours ? 

Roe. I did — -but she relapsed again. 

Lit. Naturally — so you kept her alive by repeated appli- 
cation ? 

Roe. Till her father came up. 

Lit. She recovered, then ? 

Roe. Immediately — he thanked me, tucked my angel under 
his arm, they re-entered the righted vehicle, and drove on. 

Lit. Is that all ? 

Roe. Forbid it, Venus — no — with incredible trouble I traced 
I them. The father — the dragon who guards this Hesperian 
I fruit, is an old East Indian colonel, as proud as Lucifer, and as 
l hot as his dominions — I hovered round the house for a week. 

Lit. Successfully ? 

Roe. I saw her once for a second at the back garden gate. 

Lit. To speak to her ? 

Roe. I hadn't time. 

Lit. No?— Oh! 

Roe. No. So I gave her a kiss — 

Lit. Excellent economv ! and her name ? 



400 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Roe. Is Rocket — her father, an eccentric old bully, turns his 
house into a barrack — mounts guard at the hall-door — the poor 
girl can't move without a sentry, and I believe her lady's maid 
is an old one-eyed corporal of artillery. 

'Lit. Is she rich ? 

Roe. She is fair. 

Lit. Possibly — a thing to be admired in a danseuse or a 
friend's wife; but in the matrimonial stocks, done on our West- 
ern 'change, the fairest hue we recognize is yellow. 

Roe. Does virtue go for nothing ? 

Lit. Oh ! no ! character is indispensable to servant maids, 
but virtue, as a word, is obsolete ; we have, indeed, a French 
one like it, vertu — yes, ladies of vertu might signify articles of 
rarity. 

Roe. Does the lexicon of fashion, then, abjure the sense ? 

Lit. Certainly not; virtue signifies the strength in a bottle 
of salts. 

Roe. And vice ? 

Lit. A — a fault in horses. 

Roe. And religion? 

Lit. A pew in a fashionable church ! 

Roe. So 'twould appear that beauty is invested in bank- 
stock ; grace consolidated with the landed interests ; while rep- 
utation fluctuates with the three and a half per cents. 

Lit. Exactly ; gold is the Medean bath of youth, possessing 
also a magnetic attraction for every cardinal virtue, while all the 
plagues of Egypt are shut up in one English word, and that is 
poverty ; the exhibition of which, like that of the Gorgon's head, 
turns the hearts of your dearest friends to stone. 

Roe. Can May Fair legislation so repeal the laws of nature ? 
by Jove ! the West end at last will cut the sun because it rises 
in the east, and live by wax light ! 

Lit. You, perhaps, may never see the world as I do, Charles, 
because I am poor ; but a rich man's view of life is bounded by 
his parasites — he feels but through his glove, and thinks all 
things are soft. 

Roe. Then I am lost, for my angel is penniless. 

Lit. Right, angels are the only things who can be poor and 
lovely ; but to marry thus before you have given the wor- 
shipful company of mamma brokers a chance, is against all 
rule. 

Roe. Would you have me marry a thing whose mind is 
bounded by her bonnet, a soul perfumed with foreign sentiment 
— as guiltless of old English virtues as her tongue is of their 



SCENE FROM OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS. 401 

native names. No ! I'll have a heart that beats with blood — 
a cheek that's red with it — and be no slave of such a thing 
of scent and paint — but strike one blow for love and human 
nature. 

Lit. Oh, you luxurious dog ! [Shaking his hand.'] Oh — h ! 
if I could only afford to marry a woman instead of a banker's 
account — but what obstacles oppose your epicurean intentions 
towards Miss Rocket ? 

Roe. I hear my father intends for me the double honor of a 
seat in the House, and a wife— my cousin Alice, the wealthy 
young widow of Lord George Hawthorn. 

Lit. Lady Alice— who shook the very apathy of the opera 
last week, by demanding to be balloted into the omnibus box ! 

Roe. Such a wife — why do they not give her a commission 
in the Blues, at once ? 

Lit. She flashed into our fashionable system like a new 
comet, whose eccentricity defied all known law, and quickly 
drew after her a train that obliterated all the constellations of 
St. James's, and the heavenly bodies of May Fair. 

Roe. You know her, then ? 

Lit, A Polka acquaintanceship ! I've been introduced to her 
waist; we know each other in the house of our mutual friends 
— but of what use can I be here ? 

Roe. The greatest. My father has arranged my nomination 
for Closeborough, I shall be obliged to advocate his political 
principles in the House, to which party old Rocket is a virulent 
opponent. 

Lit. What's to be done ? 

Roe. Oppose my father — and thus— oblige me by opposing 
my election, and I will answer for your success. 

Lit. Ha ! ha ! help me to your* borough — why, you rascal, 
would you make the Home Secretary purchase in a talented 
member for the opposition ? 

Roe. Consent ? 

Lit. With, all my heart; I see but one obstacle — the quali- 
fication ! 

Roe. The three hundred a-year — that's true — stay — Coke, 
at Eton, you were considered a fellow of great pluck. 

Lit. You flatter. 

Roe. You look tenacious of life. 

Lit. Ha! 

Roe. I'll make you a present of the widow. 

Lit. Lady Alice ? 



402 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Roe. If she have not, ere this, volunteered to Morocco or 
Macao. 

Lit. Charles, to oblige you I accept the borough- — for your 
sake I'll encounter the widow and the five thousand a-year. 



Trial Scene from, Merchant of Venice, 

Shakspeare. 

The Duke, Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Solanio, Sala- 
rino, Gratiano, and Attendants, discovered. 

Duke. \Seated^\ What, is Antonio here ? 

Ant. Ready, so please your grace. 

Duke. lam sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 

Ant. I have heard 
Your grace hath taken great pains to qualify 
His rigorous, course ; but since he stands obdurate, 
And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach,' I do oppose 
My patience to his fury ; and am armed 
To suffer with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 

Sol. He's ready at the 'door : he comes, my lord. 

Enter Shylock. 

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. 
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought 
Thou'lt show thy mercy, and remorse, more strange 
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty : v 
And, where thou now exact'st the penalty, 
(Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,) 
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 






TRIAL SCENE FROM MERCHANT OP VENICE. 403 

But, touched with human gentleness and love, 

Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 

That have of late so huddled on his back; 

Enough to press a royal merchant down, 

And pluck commiseration of his state 

From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never trained 

To offices of tender courtesy. 

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

Shy. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; 
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn, 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond : 
If you deny it, let the danger light 
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have 
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
Three thousand ducats i — I'll not answer that : 
But say, it is my humor : is it answered ? 
What if my house be troubled with a rat, 
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats 
To have it baned ; what, are you answered yet ? 
Some men there are, love not a gaping pig ; 
Some, that are mad, if they behold a cat ; 
!STow for your answer : 
As there is no firm reason to be rendered, 
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 
Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; 
So can I give no reason, nor will I not, 
More than a lodged hate, and a certain loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
A losing suit against him. Are you answered ? 

Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, 
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? 

Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? 

Bass. Every offense is not a hate at first. 

Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? 

Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : 
You may as well go stand upon the beach, j 
And bid the main flood bate its usual height ; 
You may as well use question with the wolf, 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 






404 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; 
You may as well — do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that (than which what's harder ?) 
His JeAvish heart ; therefore I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no further means, 
But, with all brief and plain conveniency, 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here are six. 

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them, I would have my bond. 

Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? 

Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? 
You have among you many a purchased slave, 
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
Because you bought them ; shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ; 
Why sweat they under their burdens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, let their palates 
Be seasoned with such viands? you will answer, 
The slaves are ours : — So do I answer you : 
The pound, of flesh which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it : 
If you deny me, fie upOn your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice : 
I stand for judgment : — answer : shall I have it ? 

Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day. 

Sala. My lord, here stays without 
A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 

Duke. Bring us the letters : call the messenger. 

[Exit Salanio. 

Bass. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man ? courage yet ! 
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, 
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
Meetest for death ; the weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me ; 



TRIAL SCENE FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE. 405 

You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, 
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. 

Enter Solanio with Nerissa, dressed like a Lawyer's clerk, and 
goes to the Duke. 

Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 

Ner. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace. 

[Presents a letter. — Shylock kneels on one knee, and 
whets his knife on the floor.] 

Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? 

Shy. To cut the forfeit from that bankrupt there. 

Gra. Can no prayers pierce thee ? 

Shy. [Gets up.].~No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. 

Gra. Oh, be thou damned, inexorable dog, 
And for thy life let justice be accused. 
Thou almost makest me waver in my faith, 
To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
That souls of animals infuse themselves ' 
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit 
Governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter, 
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, 
And, whilst thou lay est in thy unhallowed dam, 
Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires 
Are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous. 

Shy. [Holding up the bond, and tapping it with the knife.] 
Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, 
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : 
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
A young and learned doctor to our court : — 
Where is he ? 

Ner. He attendeth here hard by, 
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 

Duke. With all my heart, some three or four of you, 
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 

[Exeunt Gratiano and Solanio. 
Meantime, the Court shall hear Bellario's letter. 
[Beads.] "Your grace shall understand that, at the receipt 
of your letter, I am very sick : but in the instant that your mes- 
senger came, in loving visitation was with me a young ^ doctor 
of Rome, his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the 
cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio, the mer- 



406 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

chant: we turned o'er -many books together; he is furnished 
with my opinion ; which, bettered with his own learning, (the 
greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,) comes with him, 
at my importunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. 
I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him 
lack a reverent estimation ; for I never knew so young a body 
with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, 
whose trial shall better publish his commendation." 

You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes, 

And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 

Enter Portia, dressed like a Doctor of Laws, Solanio, and 
Gratiano. 

Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ? 

For. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome : take your place. [Portia sits. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court? 

For. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

[They stand forth. 

For. Is your name Shylock ? 

Shy. Shylock is my name. 

For. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. 
[To Ant.~\ You stand within his danger, do you not? 

Ant. Ay, so he says. 

For. Do you confess the bond ? 

Ant. I do. 

For. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 

For. The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the fear and dread of kings ; 
But mercy is above the sceptered sway, 



TBIAL SCENE FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE, 407 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself ; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 

When mercy seasons justice : therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy : I have spoke thus much, 

To mitigate the j ustice of thy plea ; 

Which, if thou follow this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penahy and forfeit of my bond. 

Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 

Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 
Yea, thrice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : 
If this will not suffice, it must appear 
That malice bears down truth : And I beseech you, 
Wrest once the law to your authority : 
To do a great right, do a little wrong, 
And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Por. It must not be. There is no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established ; 
'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; 
And many an error, by the same example, 
Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 

Shy. [In ecstasy] A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a 
Daniel ! — 
Oh, wise young judge, how do I honor thee ! 

Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. [Gives it. 

Por. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. 

Shy. An oath, an oath ! I have an oath in heaven! 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 
No, not for Venice. 

Por. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful ; 
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. 



408 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

It doth appear, you are a worthy judge; 

You know the law, your exposition 

Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 

Whereof you are a well- deserving pillar, 

Proceed to judgment. By my soul, I swear, 

There is no power in the tongue Of man 

To alter me. 1 stay here on my bond. 

Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

For. Why, then, thus it is. 
You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; — 

Shy. Oh, noble judge ! Oh, excellent young man ! 

For. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 
Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shy. 'Tis very true. Oh, wise and upright judge ! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 

For. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
\ Shy. Ay, his breast; 
So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge ? 
Nearest his heart ; those are the very words. 

For. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh 
The flesh ? 

Shy. I have them ready. 

For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 

For. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ? 
'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shy. I cannot find it : 'tis not in the bond. 

For. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? 

Ant. But little : I am armed, and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well ! 
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom ; it is still her use, 
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, 
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
An age of poverty : from which lingering penance 
Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
Commend me to your honorable wife ; 
Tell her the process of Antonio's end, 
Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death ; 
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge, 



TRIAL SCENE FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE. 400 

Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, 
And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 

Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife 
Which is as dear to me as life itself ; 
But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
Are not with me esteemed above thy life: 
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all ;•.... 

Here to this devil, to deliver you. 

Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love ; 
I would she were in heaven, so she could 
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

Shy. These be the Christian husbands ! I have a daughter ; 
Would any of the stock of Barabbas 

Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! [Aside. 

We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shy. Most rightful judge ! 

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : 
The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shy. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! come, prepare. 

Por. Tarry a little : there is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood : 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh ; 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But, in the cutting of it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the State of Venice. 

Gra. Oh, upright judge ! Mark, Jew ; a learned judge ! 

Shy. Is that the law ? 

Por. Thyself shalt see the act : 
For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

Gra. Oh, learned judge! Mark, Jew; a learned judge ! 

Shy. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice, 
And let the Christian go. 

Bass. Here is the money. 

Por. Soft: 
The Jew shall have all justice ! soft ! no haste ; 
"He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
18 



410 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Gra. Oh, Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 

Por. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 
But just a pound of flesh ; if thou tak'st more 
Or less than a just pound — be it but so much 
As makes it light or heavy in the substance, 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple ! nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair, 
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

Por. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Bass. I have it ready for thee : here it is. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court ; 
He shall have merely justice and his bond. 

Gra. A Daniel, still say I ! a second Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shy. Shall I not barely have my principal ? 

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why, then, the devil give him good of it ! 
I'll stay no longer question. [Going. 

Por. Tarry, Jew ; 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien, 
That by direct or indirect attempts 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive, 
Shall seize on half his goods : the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the State ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the Duke only, against all other voice. 
In which predicament, I say, thou standest ; 
For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
That indirectly, and directly too, 
Thou hast contrived against the very life 
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurred 
The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. 

Gra. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself: 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the State, 



TRIAL SCENE FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE. 411 

Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 

Therefore, thou must be hanged at the State's charge. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general State, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

Por. Ay, for the State ; not for Antonio. 

Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : 
You take my house, when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain the house : you take my life, 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Por. What mercy, can you render him, Antonio ? 

Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for Heaven's sake. 

Ant. So please my lord the Duke, and all the court, 
To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 
I am content, so he will let me have 
The other half in use — to render it, 
Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
That lately stole his daughter : 
Two things provided more — that, for this favor, 
He presently become a Christian ; 
The other, that he do record a gift, 
Here in the court, of all he dies possessed, 
Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter. 

Duke. He shall do this ; or else I do recant 
The pardon that I late pronounced here. 

Por. Art thou contented, Jew ? What dost thou say ? 

Shy. I am content. 

Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence ; 
I am not well ; send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it. 

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 

Gra. In christening thou shalt have two godfathers ; 
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [Exit Shy. 

Duke. [To Por.] Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 

Por. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon ; 
I must away this night toward Padua, 
And it is meet I presently set forth. 

Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. 
Antonio, gratify this gentleman, 
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 



412 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Scene from the Elder Brother,— Beaumont and Fletohee. 

Charles (the Elder Brother) — Andrew. 

Enter Charles. 

Chas, What noise is in this house ! my head is broken 
With several noises ; and in every corner, 
As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic, 
There are stirs and motions. What planet rules this house ? 

Enter Andrew. 

Who's there ? 

And. 'Tis I, sir, faithful Andrew. 

Chas. Come near, 
And lay thine ear down ; hear'st no noise ? 

And. The cooks 
Are chopping herbs and mince-meat to make pies, 
And breaking marrow-bones — 

Chas. Can they set them again ? 

And. Yes, yes, in broths and puddings, and they grow 
stronger 
For th' use of any man. 

Chas. What squeaking's that ? 
Sure there is a massacre. 

And. Of pigs and geese, sir, 
And turkeys for the spit. The cooks are angry, sir, 
And that makes up the medley. 

Chas. Do they thus 
At every dinner ? I ne'er marked them yet, 
Nor know who is a cook. 

And. They're sometimes sober, 
And then they beat as gently as a tabor. 

Chas. What loads are these ? 

And. Meat, meat, sir, for the kitchen, 
And stinking fowls the tenants have sent in — 
They'll ne'er be found out at a general eating — 
And there's fat venison, sir. 

Chas. What's that ? 

And. Why, deer, 
Those that men fatten for their private pleasures, 
And let their tenants starve upon the commons. 

Chas. I've read of deer, but yet I ne'er eat any. 

And. There's a fishmonger's boy with caviare, sir, 
Anchovies and potargo, to make ye drink. 



SCENE PROM THE ELDER BROTHER. 413 

Chas. Sure these are modern, very modern meats, 
For I understand 'em not. 

And. No more does any man ; 
Till they be greased with oil, and rubbed with onions, 
And then flung out of doors, they are rare salads. 

Chas. And why is all this, prithee tell me, Andrew ? 
Are there any princes to dine here to-day ? 
By this abundance, sure there should be princes ; 
I've read of entertainment for the gods 
At half this charge : will not six dishes serve 'em ? 
I never had but one, and that a small one. 

And. Your brother's married — this day, he's married, 
Your younger brother, Eustace. 

Chas. What of that ? 

And. And all the friends about are bidden hither ! 
There's not a dog that knows the house but comes too. 

Chas. Married! to whom? 

And. Why, to a dainty gentlewoman, 
Young, sweet and modest. 

Chas. Are there modest women ? 
How do they look ? 

And. Oh, you'd bless yourself to see them. 
He parts with his books, he ne'er did so before yet. 

Chas. What does my father for him ? 

And. Gives all his land, 
And makes your brother heir. 

Chas. Must I have nothing 

And. Yes, you must study still, and he'll maintain you 

Chas. I am his eldest brother. 

And. True, you were so ; 
But he has leaped over your shoulders, sir. 

Chas. 'Tis well, 
He'll not inherit my understanding, too ? 

And. I think not ; he'll scarce find tenants to let it 
Out to. 

Chas. Hark ! hark ! 

And. The coach that brings the fair lady. 
Now you may see her. 

Chas. Sure this should be modest ; 
But I do not truly know what women make of it, 
Andrew ; she has a face looks like a story, 
The story of the heavens looks very like her. 

And. She has a wide face, then. 



9 






414 THE PKACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Chas. She has a cherubim's, 
Covered and veiled with modest blushes. 
Eustace, be happy while poor Charles is patient. 
Get me my book again, and come in with me. 






Scene from Werner.— Byron. 

Werner— Ulric. 

Ulric. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. [Starting up.] Hush ! boy— 
The walls may hear that name ! 

Ulric. What then? 

Wer. Why, then- — 
But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! 
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 
Are you aware my father is no more ? 

Ulric. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green old age. 
'Twas scarce three months since. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim 9 

Ulric. I saved 
His life but yesterday : he's here. 

Wer. You saved 
The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulric. You speak 
Riddles ; what is this Stralenheim to us ? 

Wer. Everything. One who claims our father's lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulric. I never heard his name till now — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 
But here he is all powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father. 

Ulric. Doth he personally know you ? 



SCENE FROM WERNER. 415 

Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betrayed last night : and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulric. I think you wrong him, 
(Excuse me for the phrase;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 
He owes me something both for past and present ; 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me ; 
He hath been plundered too, since he came hither ; 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robbed him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that ; but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

Wer. [Agitatedly. ,] "Who taught you thus to brand an un- 
known being 
With the name of villain ? 

Ulric. My own feelings 
Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you, long sought and ill-found boy, that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ulric. I named a villain. What is there in common 
With such a being and my father ? 

Wer. Everything ! 
That ruffian is thy father ! 

Ulric. [Starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then says slowly] 
And you avow it ? 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive— 
Should you see then the serpent who hath coiled 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 



416 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 

Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 

Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle; 

The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 

Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 

Inviting death by looking like it, while 

His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 

If, then, like me, content with petty plunder, 

You turn aside — I did so. [Drops into chair. 

Ulric. But — 

Wer. [Abruptly^] Hear me ! 
I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtlety. He was within my power — 
I'm now in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? [Pauses. 

Ulric. Proceed — proceed ! 

Wer. Me he hath ever known, 
And hunted through each change of time — name — fortune — 
And why not you f Are you more versed in men? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurned 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Poverty — insult — chains — 
My birthright seized — while my despairing 
Wife — could you endure all this ? 
Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulric. [Looks first at him, and then at Josephine^ My 
mother ! 

Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 



SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN". 417 

Scene from the Poor Gentleman.— Coiman. 

Sir Robert Bramble — Humphrey Dobbins — Frederick. 

Enter Sir Robert Bramble and Humphrey Dobbins. 

Sir Rob. I tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there isn't a 
syllable of sense in all you have been saying. But I suppose 
you will maintain that there is ? 

Hum. Yes. 

Sir Rob. Yes ! Is that the way you talk to me, you old 
boar ? What's my name ? 

Hum. Robert Bramble. 

Sir Rob. A'nt I a baronet ? Sir Robert Bramble of Blackbury 
Hall, in the county of Kent ? 'Tis time you should know it, 
for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet de chambre these 
thirty years ; can you deny that ? 

Hum. Umph ! 

Sir Rob. Umph ! What the deuce do you mean by umph ? 
Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice 
walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question ? 

Hum. Because, if I contradict you there, I should tell a lie, 
and whenever I agree with you, you are sure to fall out. 

Sir Rob. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavor- 
ing to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your hair has 
tumbled off it before I carry my point. 

Hum. What then ? Our parson says my head is an emblem 
of both our honors. 

Sir Rob. Aye ; because honors, like your head, are apt to 
be empty. 

Hum. No ; but if a servant has grown bald under his mas- 
ter's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and re- 
gard for it on t'other. 

Sir Rob. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest 
as a — pshaw ! the parson means to palaver us ; but to return to 
my position, I tell you I don't like your flat contradiction. 

Hum. Yes, you do. 

Sir Rob. I tell you I don't ; I only love to hear men's argu- 
ments, I hate their flummery. 

Hum. What do you call flummery ? 

Sir Rob. Flattery, blockhead ! a dish too often served up, 
by paltry poor men, to paltry rich ones. 

Hum. I never serve it up to you. 
18* 



418 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Rob. No ; I'll be sworn you give me a dish of a different 
description. 

Hum. Umph ! what is it ? 

Sir Rob. Sour crout, you old crab. 

Hum. I have held you a stout tug* at argument this many a 
year. 

Sir Rob. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. 
Now, mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, 
I suspect he means to flatter him : now, I am rich, and hate 
flattery. Ergo. When a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I 
hate him. 

Hum. That's wrong. 

Sir Rob. Very well. Negatur. Now prove it. 

Hum. Put the case then : I am a poor man — 

Sir Rob. You lie, you scoundrel ; you know you shall never 
want while I have a shilling. 

Hum. Bless you! 

Sir Rob. Pshaw ! Proceed. 

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor — I must be a poor man now, 
or I shall never get on. 

Sir Rob. Well, get on. Be a poor man. 

Hum. I am a poor man, and I argue with you, and convince 
you you are wrong ; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I 
am of your opinion ! Now, that's no flattery. 

Sir Robert. Why, no; but when a man's of the same opinion 
with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end 
to conversation; so I hate him for that. But where's my 
nephew, Frederick ? 

Hum. Been out these two hours. 
_ Sir Rob. An undutiful cub ! Only arrived from Russia last 
night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's 
scampering over the fields like a Calmuc Tartar. 

Hum. He's a fine fellow. 

Sir Rob. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think 
he's a little like me, Humphrey ? 

Hum. Bless you ! not a bit : you are as ugly an old man as 
ever I clapt my eyes on. 

Sir Rob. Now that's impudent ; but there's no flattery in it, 
and it keeps up the independence of argument : his father, my 
brother Job, is of as tame a spirit — Humphrey, you remember 
my brother Job ? 

Hum. Yes : you drove him to Russia five and twenty vears 
ago. 

Sir Rob. I drove him ! [Angrily. 



SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 419 

Hum. Yes, you did. You would never let him be at peace 
in the way of argument. 

Sir Rob. At peace ! zounds ! he would never go to war. 

Hum. He had the merit to be calm. 

Sir Rob. So has a duck-pond : he was a bit of still life — a 
chip — weak water-gruel — a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without 
sauce or salt. He received men's arguments with his mouth 
open, like a poor-box gaping for halfpence, and good or bad he 
swallowed them all without any resistance ; we couldn't dis- 
agree, and so we parted. 

Hum. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a 
quiet life. 

Sir Rob. A quiet life ! why he married the moment he got 
there, tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant, 
and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, potashes, 
tallow, linen, and leather ; and what's the consequence ? thirteen 
months ago he broke. 

Hum. Poor soul ! his wife should have followed the business 
for him. 

Sir Rob. I fancy she did follow it, for she died just as it went 
to the devil ; and now this madcap, Frederick, is sent over to 
me for protection. Poor Job ! now he's in distress, I mustn't 
neglect his son. [Frederick is heard without. 

Hum. Here comes his son; that's Mr. Frederick. 

Enter Frederick. 

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, good morning ! Your park is no- 
thing but beauty. 

Sir Rob. Who bid you caper over my beauty ? I told you 
to stay in doors till I got up. 

Fred. Egad ! so you did ; I had as entirely forgot it, as — 

Sir Rob. And pray what made you forget it ? 

Fred. The sun. 

Sir Rob. The sun ! he's mad ! You mean the moon, I be- 
lieve ? 

Fred. Oh, my dear uncle, you don't know the effect of a fine 
spring morning upon a fellow just arrived from Russia. The 
day looked bright ; trees budding ; birds singing ; the park was 
gay ; so, egad, I took a hop, step, and a jump, out of your old 
balcony, made your deer fly before me like the wind, and chased 
them all round the park, to get an appetite, while you were 
snoring in bed, uncle. 

Sir Rob. Oh ! so the effect of English sunshine upon a Rus- 



420 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

sian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my 
deer. 

Fred. I confess it had that influence upon me. 

Sir Rob. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle ; 
unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. 

Fred. Sir, I hate fat legacies. 

Sir Rob. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid 
tokens of kindness, at least. ' 

Fred. Very melancholy tokens, uncle : they are posthumous 
dispatches affection sends to gratitude, to inform us we have 
lost a generous friend. 

Sir Rob. How charmingly the dog argues ! 

Fred. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. 
I will obey you better in future ; for they tell me you are a 
very worthy, good sort of old gentleman. 

Sir Rob. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell you 
that ? 

Fred. Old rusty, there. 

Sir Rob. Why, Humphrey, you didn't ? 

Hum. Yes, but I did, though. 

Fred. Yes, he did ; and on that score I shall be anxious to 
show you obedience ; for 'tis as meritorious to attempt sharing 
a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich 
man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast 
high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the 
pocket. 

Sir Rob. [Embracing him.~\ Jump out of every window I have 
in my house, hunt my deer in high fevers, my fine fellow. Give 
me a man who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrines 
smack in my teeth. 

Fred. I disagree with you there, uncle. 

Bum. So do I. 

Fred. You, you forward puppy ! If you were not so old, I'd 
knock you down. 

Sir Rob. I'll knock you down if you do. I wont have my 
servants thumpt into dumb flattery, I wont let you teach 'em to 
silence a toad-eater. 

Hum. Come, you're ruffled ; let's go to the business of the 
morning. 

Sir Rob. Damn the business of the morning! Don't you 
see we are engaged in discussion ? I hate the business of 
the morning. 

Hum. No, you don't. 

Sir Rob. And why not ? 



SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN. 421 

Hum. Because it's charity. 

Sir Rob. Pshaw ! Well, we must not neglect the business : 
if there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning's list, 
Humphrey. 

Hum. [Reading^] Jonathan Haggens, of Muck Mead, is put 
into prison. 

Sir Rob. Why, it was but last week, Gripe, the attorney, 
received two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. 

Hum. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble ; so 
seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan in 
jail for the remainder. 

Sir Rob. A harpy ! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress. 

Fred. And I must kick his attorney. 

Hum. The curate's horse is dead. 

Sir Rob. Pshaw ! there's no distress in that. 

Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles 
every Sunday, to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a 
year. 

Sir Rob. Why wont Punmonk the vicar give him another 
nag? 

Hum. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate ready 
mounted. 

Sir Rob. What's the name of the black pad, I purchased 
last Tuesday at Tunbridge ? 

Hum. Belzebub. 

Sir Rob. Send Belzebub to the curate, and tell him to work 
him as long as he lives. 

Fred. And if you have a tumble-down-tit, send him to the 
vicar, and give him a chance of breaking his neck. 

Sir Rob. What else ? 

Hum. Somewhat out of the common. There's one lieuten- 
ant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a widower, come to 
lodge at farmer Harrowby's, in the village ; he's plaguy poor, 
indeed, it seems ; but more proud than poor, and more honest 
than proud. 

Fred. That sounds like a noble character. 

Sir Rob. And so he sends to me for assistance. 

Hum. He'd see you hanged first; Harrowby says, he'd 
sooner die than ask any man for a shilling ! — there's his daugh- 
ter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that has 
served in the wars with him. He keeps them all upon half- 
pay. 

Sir Rob. Starves them all, I'm afraid, Humphrey ! 

Fred. [Going.] Uncle, good morning. 



422 THE PEACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Sir Rob. Where the devil are you running now ? 

Fred. To talk to lieutenant Worthington. 

Sir Rob. And what may you be going to say to him ? 

Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him, and then, uncle, when 
I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled in his 
country's service, and struggling to support his motherless 
child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable indi- 
gence ; impulse will supply me with words to express my sen- 
timents. [Hurrying away. 

Sir Rob. Stop, you rogue, I must be before you in this 
business. 

Fred. That depends upon who can run fastest ; to start fair, 
uncle, and here goes. [Runs off. 

Sir Rob. Stop ; why Frederick — a jackanapes — to take my 
department out of my hands. I'll disinherit the dog for his 
assurance. 

Bum. No> you wont. 

Sir Rob. Wont I ? — but we'll argue that point as we go — 
come along Humphrey. 



Scene from Douglass.— "Rows. 
Norval and Glenalvon. 

Glen. His port I love ; he's in a proper mood 
To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [Aside. 

Has Norval seen the troops? 

* JSforv. The setting sun 
With yellow radiance lighted all the vale ; 
And as the warriors moved each polished helm, 
Corselet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. 
The hill they climbed ; and halting at its top, 
Of more than mortal size, towering, they seemed 
A host angelic, clad in burning arms. 

Glen. Thou talk'st it well ; no leader of our host 
In sounds more lofty speaks of glorious war. 

Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name, 
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty 
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration 



SCENE FROM DOUGLASS. 423 

Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine 
Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. 

Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds 
Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval ; 
Lord Randolph's favor now exalts your youth 
Above his veterans of famous service. 
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. 
Give them all honor ; seem not to command, 
Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power, 
Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns. 

Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days 
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth; 
And though I have been told that there are men 
"Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, 
Yet in such language I am little skilled : 
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, 
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind 
Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power 
With such contemptuous terms ? 

Glen. I did not mean 
To gall your pride, which now I see is great. 

Norv. My pride ! 

Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. 
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, 
I will not leave you to its rash direction. 
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, 
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn ? 

Norv. A shepherd's scorn ? 

Glen. Yes ; if you presume 
To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes, 
As if you took the measure of their minds, 
And said in secret, You're no match for me, 
What will become of you ? 

Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self ? 

Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ? 

Norv. Didst thou not hear ? 

Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe 
Had not been questioned thus ; but such as thee — 

Norv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

Glen. Norval. 

Norv. So I am — 
And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes ? 

Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ; 
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. 

Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth? 



424 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Glen. Thy truth ! thou'rt all a lie ; and false as hell 
Is the vainglorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. 

Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old, 
Perhaps I should revile ; but as I am, 
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval 
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. 
Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valor, 
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, 
I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well. 

Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command 
Ten thousand slaves like thee ? 

Norv. Villain, no more ! 

Draw and defend thy life. I did design 
To have defied thee in another cause ; 
But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. 
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. 

Lord Ran. [Enters.] Hold ! I command you both ! the man 
Makes me his foe. [that stirs 

Norv. Another voice than thine, 
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. 

Glen. Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous condescending ! 
Mark the humility of shepherd Norval ! 

Norv. Now you may scoff in safety ! [Sheathes his sword. 

Lord Ran. Speak not thus, 
Taunting each other, but unfold to me 
The cause of quarrel; then I judge betwixt you. 

Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, 
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. 
I blush to speak : I will not, cannot speak 
The opprobrious words that I from him have borne. 
To the liege lord of my dear native land 
I owe a subject's homage ; but even him 
And his high arbitration I'd reject. 
Within my bosom reigns another lord ; 
Honor, sole judge and umpire of itself. 
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph, 
Revoke your favors, and let Norval go 
Hence, as he came, alone, but not dishonored ! 

Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice ; 
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land 
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields ; 
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms 
Repel the bold invader ; then decide 
The private quarrel. 

Glen. I agree to this. Norv. And I. 



SCENE FROM MONEY. 425 



Scene from Money.— Bulwer. 

Scene. — An anteroom in Evelyn's new house ; at one corner, he- 
hind a large screen, Mr. Sharp, writing at a desk, books and 
parchments before him. — Mr. Crimson, the portrait-painter ; 
Mr. Crab, the publisher ; Mr. Tabouret, the coachmaker ; and 
Mr. Frantz, the tailor. 

Pat. [To Frantz, showing a drawing.'] Yes, sir; this is the 
Evelyn vis-a-vis ! No one more the fashion than Mr. Evelyn. 
Money makes the man, sir. 

Frantz. But de tailor, de Schneider, make de gentleman ! 
where de faders and de mutters make only de ugly little naked 
boys ! 

Enter Evelyn. 

Eve. A levee, as usual. Good day. Ah, Tabouret, your 
designs for the draperies ; very well. And what do you want, 
Mr. Crimson ? 

Grim. Sir, if you'd let me take your portrait, it would make 
my fortune. Every one says you're the finest judge of paintings . 

Eve. Of paintings ! paintings ! Are you sure I'm a judge 
of paintings ? 

Crim. Oh, sir, didn't you buy the great Correggio for 4000Z. ? 

Eve. True — I see. So 4000/. makes me an excellent judge 
of paintings. I'll call on you, Mr. Crimson. Good day. Mr. 
Grab — oh, you're the publisher who once refused me bl. for 
my poem ? you are right : is was sad doggerel. 

Grab. Doggerel ! Mr. Evelyn, it was sublime ! But times 
were bad then. 

Eve. Very bad times with me. 

Crab. But now, sir, if you give me the preference, I'll push 
it, sir — I'll push it ! I only publish for poets in high life, sir ; 
and n gentleman of your station ought to be pushed ! — 500Z. for 
the poem, sir ! 

Eve. 500Z. when I don't want it, where 5?. once would have 
seemed a fortune. 

" Now I am rich, what value in the lines ! 
How the wit brightens — how the sense refines !" 

[Turns to the rest who surround him. 
Pat. [Showing drawing.] The Evelyn vis-a-vis ! 
Frantz. [ Opening his bundle and with dignity.] Sare, I have 
brought de coat — de great Evelyn coat. 



/ 



426 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Eve. Oh, go to that is, go home ! — Make me as celebra- 
ted for vis-a-vis, salvers, furniture, and coats, as I already am 
for painting, and shortly shall be for poetry. I resign myself 
to you — go ! [Exeunt Patent, <&c. 

Enter Stout., 

Eve. Stout, you look heated ! 

Stout. I hear you have just bought the great Groginhole 
property. 

Eve. It is true. Sharp says it's a bargain, 

Stout. Well, my dear friend Hopkins, member for Groginhole, 
can't live another month — but the interests of mankind forbid 
regret for individuals ! The patriot Popkins intends to start for 
the borough the instant Hopkins is dead ! — your interest will 
secure his election ! — now is your time ! put yourself forward 
in the march of enlightenment ! — By all that is bigoted here 
comes Glossmore ! 

Enter Glossmore. 

Gloss. So lucky to find you at home ! Hopkins, of Groginhole, 
is not long for this world. Popkins, the brewer, is already can- 
vassing underhand (so very ungentlemanlylike !) Keep your 
interest for young Lord Cipher, a valuable candidate. This is 
an awful moment — the constitution depends on his return ! 
Note for Cipher ! 

Stout. Popkins is your man ! 

Eve. [Musingly^] Cipher and Popkins — Popkins and Cipher ! 
Enlightenment and Popkins — Cipher and the Constitution ! I 
am puzzled ! Stout, I am not known at Groginhole. 

Stout. Your property's known there. 

Eve. But purity of election — independence of votes — 

Stout. To be sure : Cipher bribes abominably. Frustrate his 
schemes — preserve the liberties of the borough — turn every man 
out of his house who votes against Enlightenment and Popkins ! 

Eve. Right ! — down with those who take the liberty to ad- 
mire any liberty except our liberty ! That m liberty ! 

Gloss. Cipher has a stake in in the country — will have 50, 
000?. a year — Cipher will never give a vote without considering 
beforehand how people of 50,000Z. a year will be affected by 
the motion. 

Eve. Right : for as without law there would be no property, 
so to be the law for property is the only proper property of 
law ! That is law ! 

Stout. Popkins is all for economy — there's a sad waste of the 
public money^they give the Speaker 5,0001. a year, when I've 
a brother-in-law who takes the chair at the vestry, and who as- 



SCENE FROM MONEY. 42*7 

sures me confidentially he'd consent to be Speaker for half the 
money ! 

Gloss. Enough, Mr. Stout. Mr. Evelyn has too much at 
stake for a leveller. 

Stout. And too much sense for a bigot. 

Eve. Mr. Evelyn has no politics at all ! — Did you ever play 
at battledore ?. 

Both. Battledore! 

Eve. Battledore ! — that is, a contest between two parties : 
both parties knock about something with singular skill — some- 
thing is kept up — high — low — here — there — everywhere — no- 
where ! How grave are the players ! how anxious the by- 
standers ? But when this something falls to the ground, only 
fancy — it's nothing but cork and feather ! Go, and play by 
yourselves — I'm no hand at it ! 

Stout. [Aside.'] Sad ignorance ! — Aristocrat ! 

Gloss. Heartless principles ! — Parvenu ! 

Stout. Then you don't go against us ? — I'll bring Popkins 
to-morrow. 

Gloss. Keep yourself free till I present Cipher to you. 

Stout. I must go to inquire after Hopkins. The return of 
Popkins will be an era in history. [Exit. 

Gloss. I must be off to the club — the eyes of the country are 
upon Groginhole. If Cipher fail, the constitution is gone ! [Exit. 

Eve. [At table.] Sharp, come here, [Sharp advances,] let me 
look at you ! You are my agent, my lawyer, my man of busi- 
ness. I believe you honest ; but what is honesty ? — where 
does it exist ? — in what part of us ? 

Sharp. In the heart, I suppose. 

Eve. Mr. Sharp, it exists in the pocket ! Observe ! I lay 
this piece of yellow earth on the table — I contemplate you 
both ; the man there — the gold here ! Now, there is many a 
man in yonder streets, honest as you are, who moves, thinks, 
feels, and reasons as well as we do ; excellent in form — imper- 
ishable in soul ; who, if his pockets were three days empty, 
would sell thought, reason, body, and soul too, for that little 
coin ! Is that the fault of the man ? — no \ it is the fault of 
mankind ! God made man — Sir, behold what mankind have 
made a god ! When I was poor I hated the world ; now I am 
rich I despise it. [Rises.] Fools — knaves — hypocrites ! By 
the by, Sharp, send 100?. to the poor bricklayer whose house 
was burnt down yesterday. 

Enter Graves. 
Ah, Graves, my dear friend ! what a world this is ! 



428 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

Graves. It is an atrocious world ! — it will be set on fire one 
day — and that's some comfort ! 

Eve. Every hour brings its gloomy lesson — the temper sours 
— the affections wither — the heart hardens into stone ! Zounds ! 
Sharp ! what do you stand gaping there for ? — have you no 
bowels ? — why don't you go and see to the bricklayer ? 

[Exit Sharp. 

Eve. Graves, of all my new friends — and their name is 
Legion — you are the only one I esteem ; there is sympathy be- 
tween us — we take the same views of life. I am cordially glad 
to see you ! 

Graves. [Groaning^] Ah ! why should you be glad to see a 
man so miserable ? 

Eve. [Sighs.'] Because I am miserable myself! 

Graves. You ! Pshaw ! you have not been condemned to lose 
a wife ? 

Eve. But, plague on it, man, I may be condemned to take one ! 
Sit down and listen. [They seat themselves.] I want a confi- 
dant ! Left fatherless when yet a boy, my poor mother 
grudged herself food to give me education. Some one had told 
her that learning was better than house and land — that's a lie, 
Graves. 

Graves. A scandalous lie, Evelyn ! 

Eve. On the strength of that lie I was put to school — sent 
to college, a sizar. Do you know what a sizar is ? In pride 
he is a gentleman — in kuowledge a scholar — and he crawls 
about, amidst gentlemen and scholars, with the livery of a pau- 
per on his back ! I carried off the great prizes — I became dis- 
tinguished — I looked to a high degree, leading to a fellowship ; 
that is, an independence for myself — a home for my mother. 
One day a young lord insulted me — I retorted — he struck me — 
refused apology — refused redress. I was a sizar ! a Pariah ! 
a thing to be struck ! Sir, I was at least a man, and I horse- 
whipped him in the hall before the eyes of the whole college ! 
A few days, and the lord's chastisement was forgotten. The 
next day the sizar was expelled — the career of a life blasted. 
That is the difference between rich and poor : it takes a whirl- 
wind to move the one — a breath may uproot the other ! I came 
to London. As long as my mother lived I had one to toil for; 
and I did toil— did hope — did struggle to be something yet. 
She died, and then, somehow, my spirit broke — I resigned my 
spirit to my fate — I ceased to care what became of me. At last 
I submitted to be the poor relation — the hanger-on and gentle- 
man-lackey of Sir John Vesey. But I had an object in that ; 
there was one in that house whom I had loved at the first sight ! 



SCENE FROM MONEY. 429 

Graves. And were you loved again ? 

Eve. I fancied it, and was deceived. Not an hour before I 
inherited this mighty wealth, I confessed my love, and was re- 
jected because I was poor. Now, mark ; you remember the 
letter which Sharp gave me when the will was read ? 

Graves. Perfectly : what were the contents ? 

Eve. After hints, cautions, and admonitions — half in irony, 
half in earnest, (Ah, poor Mordaunt had known the world !) it 
proceeded — but I'll read it to you : 

" Having selected you as my heir, because I think money a 
trust to be placed where it seems likely to be best employed, I 
now — not impose a condition, but ask a favor. If you have 
formed no other and insuperable attachment, I could wish to 
suggest your choice ; my two nearest female relations are 
my niece Georgina and my third cousin, Clara Douglas, the 
daughter of a once dear friend. If you could see in either of 
these one whom you could make your wife, such would be a mar- 
riage that, if I live long enough to return to England, I would 
seek to bring about before I die." 

My friend, this is not a legal condition ; the fortune does not 
rest on it ; yet, need I say, that my gratitude considers it a 
moral obligation? Several months have elapsed since thus 
called upon — I ought now to decide : you hear the names — 
Clara Douglas is the woman who rejected me ! 

Graves. But now she would accept you ! 

Eve. And do you think I am so base a slave to passion, that 
I would owe to my gold what was denied to my affection ? 

Graves. But you must choose one in common gratitude ; you 
ought to do so — yes, there you are right. 

Eve. Of the two, then, I would rather marry where I should 
exact the least. A marriage, to which each can bring sober 
esteem and calm regard, may not be happiness, but it may be 
content. But to marry one whom you could adore and whose 
heart is closed to you — to yearn for the treasure, and only to 
claim the casket— to worship the statue that you may never 
warm to life — oh ! such a marriage would be a hell the more 
terrible because Paradise was in sight. 

Graves. Georgina is pretty, but vain and frivolous. [Aside.] 
But he has no right to be fastidious— he has never known 
Maria !— [Aloud.] Yes, my dear friend, now I think on it, you 
will be as wretched as myself ! When you are married we will 
mingle our groans together ! 

Eve. You may misjudge Georgina ; she may have a nobler 



430 THE PRACTICAL ELOCUTIONIST. 

nature than appears on the surface. On the day, but before the 
hour, in which the will was read, a letter, in a strange or dis- 
guised hand, "from an unknown Friend to Alfred Evelyn" and 
enclosing what to a girl would have been a considerable sum, 
was sent to a poor woman for whom I had implored charity, 
and whose address I had given only to Georgina. 

Graves. Why not assure yourself ? 

Eve. Because I have not dared. For sometimes, against my 
reason, I have hoped that it might be Clara ! [Taking a letter 
from his bosom and looking at it.'] No, I can't recognize the 
hand. Graves, I detest that girl ! [Rises.'] 

Graves. Who ? Georgina ? 

Eve. No ; but I've already, thank Heaven ! taken some re- 
venge upon her. Come nearer. [ Whispers.] I've bribed 
Sharp to say that Mordaunt's letter to me contained a codicil 
leaving Clara Douglas 20,000£. 

Graves. And didn't it ? 

Eve. Not a farthing! But I'm glad of it — I've paid the 
money — she's no more a dependant. No one can insult her 
now — she owes it all to me, and does not guess it, man, does 
not guess ! owes it to me whom she rejected ; me, the poor 
scholar ! Ha I ha ! there's some spite in that, eh ? 

Graves. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand each 
other. Perhaps Clara may have seen the address, and dictated 
this letter, after all ! 

Eve. Do you think so ? — I'll go to the house this instant. 

Graves. Eh? Humph! Then I'll go with you. That 
Lady Franklin is a fine woman. If she were not so gay, I 
think — I could- — 

Eve. No ; no ; don't think any such thing : women are 
even worse than men — 

Graves. True ; to love is a boy's madness ! 

Eve. To feel is to suffer ! 

Graves. To hope is to be deceived. 

Eve. I have done with romance ! 

Graves. Mine is buried with Maria ! 

Eve. If Clara did but write this ! — 

Graves. Make haste, or Lady Franklin will be out ! A vale 
of tears — a vale of tears ! 

Eve. A vale of tears, indeed ! [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Graves for his hat. 

And I left my hat behind me ! Just like my luck ! If I had 
been bred a hatter, little boys would have come into the world 
without heads ! 



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